


A Matter of Preservation

by charlock221



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Violence, arthur morgan IS The Bodyguard, can you tell i'm not very good at tagging, my fave idiots are back, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 60,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlock221/pseuds/charlock221
Summary: When Albert Mason is offered the chance to tour the West with his photographs in an effort to promote the conservation of American wildlife, he leaps at the opportunity. Familiar sights greet him - and familiar people - but as is always the case with Arthur Morgan, the plans he made rapidly spiral out of control.





	1. New York City

_Dear Mr. Mason,_

_My name is Gustave Laurent and I was fortunate enough to attend your exhibition in New York on the 4 th of this month. Your success is well-deserved: I found your photographs remarkable, the subjects exquisite, and I would very much like to display them at my gallery in Saint Denis, Lemoyne. I know the citizens of this fine city will marvel at the beauty of the creatures you have captured just as I have, and I fervently wish to meet the man behind these marvellous images. I am holding an exhibition on the 21st of the next month, where several artists of varying types will display their work, and I hope to see yours added to the collection. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Gustave Laurent._

Albert Mason clutched the letter so tightly the edges crinkled under his grip. Outside the office he could hear people chattering and typewriters clacking but everything had seemed to quieten to a soft hum once he’d opened his mail. He’d read it three times just to confirm what it was saying, to make sure he wasn’t imagining what he was reading. Someone admired his work. An _art curator_ wanted to _display_ his work.

He wasn’t going, of course.

No one would show up. Perhaps this M. Laurent appreciated his photographs but that wasn’t to say anyone else would. The photos were terrible. Capturing animals in motion was not an easy feat, as he had come to learn time and time again, and the majority of photos he’d developed hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped. His success in New York had only occurred because New York society fixated on anything that was new and incited gossip, even if it was not necessarily _good_. This very morning, for example, Albert had photographed a woman with an extravagant hat for an article purely dedicated to said extravagant hat.

Apparently, that was what the readers of the small newspaper he was currently working for longed to know about.

At the exhibition, all Albert had heard was whispers of how _beautiful_ and _exquisite_ the creatures in his photos were, and an uncomfortable feeling had settled in his stomach. Yes, he’d ventured into the wilderness with the intention of channeling his fascination for the predators of the West, but ultimately it was to convince his audience that these animals did not deserve to be callously hunted for sport. With the way those socialites’ eyes gleamed at the pictures, though, Albert had worried he’d stopped predators being hunted for sport only for them to be hunted for trophies instead; for the rich to boast to their friends about the rare beasts they were using as a rug. He was certain that was what he was going to encounter if he agreed to the exhibition in Saint Denis.

He was going, of course.

Albert would change their minds. He’d speak up if he thought people’s eyes were shining a little too brightly, if his photographs weren’t doing enough to ignite an ounce of sympathy within them. And if he didn’t speak up then… he’d stand in the corner and glare. Equally effective.

Albert drew some parchment from a drawer and began composing his reply, enthusiastically accepting M. Laurent’s invite. He was admittedly curious to meet the man who so admired his work, and he was always keen to learn of other artists and their work; the exhibition would be a noteworthy experience that he wasn’t going to ignore, even if his pictures wouldn’t be received as he’d hoped they would.

The thought of returning to Lemoyne, of travelling west again, sparked a smile as Albert continued to write. He didn’t know why he was suddenly smiling, what it was about the West that made him so cheerful.

He knew exactly what it was.

Albert wouldn’t see him. He’d be in Saint Denis for only a few days, so seeing him would be incredibly unlikely. But then again, the same man happening upon him five times, the same man _saving him_ _three times_ , was also incredibly unlikely.

He had a feeling Arthur Morgan dealt with incredibly unlikely events on a daily basis.

That unfathomable man had drifted through his mind over the past two months since his return to New York, hearing his gruff laugh when he saw the photographs, remembering his wry smile at any mention of West Elizabeth or New Hanover. On the evenings where he was feeling morose and unsociable, Albert would find the picture of Arthur and fondly reminisce over their interactions, hoping to never forget the man who had interested him so.

Perhaps once he was in Lemoyne, if he was feeling bold, he would track Mr. Morgan down, although something told him the man couldn’t be found if he did not want to be. And why on earth would he want to see Albert again?

Cutting off the slew of dark thoughts brimming behind closed doors, Albert’s pen paused in the middle of drafting his letter. Was he being ridiculous? How did he expect to convince anyone of the importance of wildlife preservation when he was so timid and meek? He couldn’t demand respect like most men could, like _Mr. Morgan_ could; he would be laughed at. Ridiculed. Monsieur Laurent would be disappointed to find the photographer he revered was hardly a man worthy of such esteem. He was hardly a man at all.

Better not to go and risk humiliation. His photographs were well-liked and considerably successful: they could change minds on their own. No need for him to stand beside them and whine at his audience like a child. He was perfectly happy here in New York, anyway. He would find the trip to Lemoyne stressful and exhausting, not to mention horribly humid.

Yes, he was better suited to staying in the office, arranging sessions with the prospective rich who wanted to get their faces in a newspaper to show off their lavish clothes and crow over their not-to-be-missed gatherings. This was all newsworthy, apparently.

Albert supposed photographing socialites was not dissimilar from photographing predators; both had hungry looks in their eyes and both fought to keep their position at the top of their individual hierarchies. Socialites were less charismatic, though. But more bloodthirsty.

No. He _was_ being ridiculous. Albert finished writing the letter and hurriedly stuffed it into an envelope and scrawled the address on it. He rose from his small desk and left his office, heading down the narrow hallway until he reached his boss’ much larger office. A secretary shot him a brief smile and opened the door for him, announcing his presence as she left.

Mr. Waxley, a balding, mustached man seated behind an ornate desk, glanced up from his work at Albert’s arrival, his wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose.

“Mr. Mason,” he acknowledged, leaning back and gesturing to a chair opposite him, “What can I do for you?”

“Mr Waxley, with your permission, I’d like to take a – a week off work.”

Mr. Waxley’s brows rose. “A week? Is there something wrong?”

Albert had scarcely interacted with Mr. Waxley bar his interview when he’d applied to be the newspaper’s photographer, yet he was appreciative of the look of concern from his employer.

“Nothing like that, sir. It’s… well, a gallery in Saint Denis plans to hold an exhibit next week and they have requested to display my work. I would very much like to attend in person, as I’m sure you understand.”

Mr. Waxley looked grave, something Albert didn’t find reassuring. “Understand, yes,” he said, “but I cannot let you go, I’m afraid. We’re simply too busy here.”

Albert’s heart sank. “Sir, with all due respect, I haven’t asked for any time away since my employment, I’ve had no days off because of illness, and I’ve covered for more than one colleague during their absence, even when unfamiliar with their duties. Surely that–”

“Mason, you’ve been here a grand total of two months,” Waxley said with a chuckle that grated at Albert, “I would have called you in here sooner if you had taken leave during that time. I’m sorry to tell you no, I really am, but I can’t afford to spare you.”

“What will you have me do next week that is so important?”

“Have you forgotten about the gala next Thursday? At the Metropolitan? I’ll need you to photograph the significant guests in attendance beforehand so that our readers–”

“Can’t you employ an artist to do that instead?”

“Why would I employ an artist when I have a photographer?”

Albert sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple with one finger, feeling an oncoming headache.

“Next month or so, when all the hubbub has died down, I can grant you some time off. How about that?”

“I resign,” Albert muttered.

“Excuse me?”

Albert opened his eyes, meeting Mr. Waxley’s stunned gaze with a determined one.

“I’m resigning. As of right now.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

Mr. Waxley leaned closer, pushing his glasses further up his nose, “Now, Mr. Mason, this is all rather childish. Perhaps you’d like a minute to think about what you’re saying before you continue.”

“I don’t need a minute, sir. I’ve already thought about it. At great lengths, as a matter of fact. Although I frequently convinced myself this job was what I wanted I’ve known for a while that it is not. And while I’m sorry to announce it in such an unexpected manner, I simply cannot stay here any longer.”

It seemed now that Mr. Waxley was the one with a headache. He was frowning at Mason, an expression of incomprehension on his face. “What exactly is your plan, then? You must know I cannot give you a referral. You’ve not been with the company long enough. Finding new employment will be much more difficult, you understand?”

“I’m aware,” Albert said. He offered a small smile. “I don’t have a plan. I haven’t fully plotted out my life like most men have.” He stood up. “But what I do know is that I need to book a ticket for the next boat to Saint Denis. Good day, sir.”

* * *

Three days after walking out of his job, Albert stepped out onto the deck of the boat as it docked in Saint Denis, casting his eye across the bustling city and breathing deeply, desperate not to endure another bout of hyperventilation. He’d suffered it twice just on the boat trip, not to mention the longer episodes the night before he left, where he’d sat shaking in an armchair as he wondered for the hundredth time if he had made a terrible mistake.

Stepping back into the familiar city, Albert cast those doubts aside. He was happy to be back there; he hadn’t felt so elated in a long while. Carriages rattled past him, people yelled to each other across the street, horses’ hooves clopped along the cobbled roads, yet a sense of peace settled inside him as he dragged his belongings towards a waiting coachman. The ride was short, and if it wasn’t for his heavy luggage Albert would have walked, but sitting in the carriage allowed him to familiarize himself with the points of interest within the city; most notably, the Laurent Gallery.

In all the time Albert had spent in Saint Denis, he was embarrassed to admit that he’d never set foot in the small gallery. That was soon to change, though, as the exhibition was in two days’ time. A buzz of excitement thrummed through his veins as he settled himself in his lodgings above the saloon. He knew only a few people who were genuinely interested in his work – Mr. Morgan being one of them – and being there now Albert was finally able to feel enthusiastic about the exhibition. He’d left his nerves on the boat, where they were going to remain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which ‘I Wanna be a Producer’ plays through my head the entire time I’m writing this. One day I hope to walk away from my job like this.


	2. Saint Denis

Albert felt sick.

He was clutching a glass of champagne whilst Gustave Laurent chatted to him, a bright expression on his face that matched his bright clothes. A blue vest over a stark white shirt, with grass green pants, and Albert wondered if this was going to be fashionable come the new century. He sincerely hoped not.

“A success, Mr. Mason, a triumph!”

Albert smiled into his drink, watching people meander through the rooms of the gallery.

“You must be thrilled, sir. Your photographs are exquisite.”

“Thank you,” Albert murmured. He swallowed more of the champagne, hoping to chase away the dryness of his throat.

“And that little speech of yours was captivating.”

Albert mumbled his thanks again as he thought back to when he was giving his ‘little speech’ twenty minutes ago. The small crowd that had listened hadn’t seemed very captivated. Captivated by the photographs, yes. The speech imploring them to fight for the conservation of America’s predators? Not at all. Albert was well aware he wasn’t the most confident public speaker, but he still couldn’t help feeling a tug of helplessness as he watched his audience lose interest the longer he talked. The smatter of applause he received once finished seemed to derive from the relief that it was over more than anything else.

“You’ll stay, Mr. Mason, won’t you?” Laurent asked, his gaze already wandering to the large, adjoining room where the next exhibition was being set up. The smaller area where Mason’s had been held had already been emptied of people as they awaited the next artist somewhere else, and employees were beginning to dismantle the easels his large prints had been displayed on. “The next few hours are going to be rather busy for me, but I would love the chance to speak with you once the exhibitions are over.”

“Of course,” Albert said. He had nothing better to do except return to the saloon.

“Wonderful!” Laurent extended his hand, and Albert shook it. “Let me say once again how happy I am you agreed to come. Now if you’ll excuse me, our next artist’s pieces are a little more… _risqué_ , and I am not entirely sure how the good people of Saint Denis will react.” He flashed Albert a smile before hurrying from the room and barking orders to employees in the new exhibition.

Albert was glad to be left alone, and he let his smile drop as his eyes scanned the portraits adorning the bright blue wallpaper. He’d agreed to sell two of his prints to M. Laurent, and the curator had beamed when the photograph of the wolves was fixed to the wall. He had been confused when he saw the second print, but Albert had been adamant that it be displayed.

Arthur Morgan had been integral to him capturing those photographs, and Albert would be damned if he didn’t give him any recognition for it.

There were balcony doors to his left, and Albert weaved between the plinths that held Greek statuettes and stepped outside, taking in a breath of fresh air with a grateful inhale. He drained the rest of his drink, watching people below him milling about their lives while he wondered what he was going to do with his.

He was due to return to New York tomorrow, and the thought of that made him feel even more nauseated. What was he going to do? He had quit his job, he had no sustainable source of income, and he was returning home to one of the most expensive cities in the country. It would only be a couple of months before he was bankrupt. He still had loans to repay from when he’d left New York to begin his meagre career as a wildlife photographer in the first place. To some extent, it was lucky he’d packed it all in earlier than intended, because that meant he could pay a little of it back. The banks hadn’t forgotten the rest, though, and he had been receiving monthly letters warning him of the upcoming deadline.

The deadline that was in two months’ time.

 _Why_ had he walked out of the newspaper offices? What a fool he had been, leaving a reliable job to chase down a fantasy. It felt less like chasing a fantasy and more like running from a nightmare. Albert had entertained foolish notions of achieving wondrous success by returning to Saint Denis, but hardly anyone had shown up to the exhibit and the prints he’d sold to Laurent hadn’t been worth as much as he’d thought. Laurent had cast his expert eye over them and suggested a price much lower than Albert’s, and Albert hadn’t wanted to suffer the humiliation of a failed negotiation, so he had hurriedly agreed, not wanting to think about the implications.

He was definitely going to be sick.

“Mr. Albert Mason?”

Behind him, a man wearing a bowler hat and dressed in a dark coat and red vest approached the railings Albert had been leaning on, offering his hand.

“I’m a great admirer of yours,” the man said, “Andrew Mumford.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Mumford.”

“They’re marvellous shots, and such beautiful creatures.”

“Yes, I thought so. Hence the photographs.”

Mumford winced, “I meant no offence, sir.”

Albert sighed, “No, no, I’m sorry, forgive me. It’s been a rather tiring day. I’m pleased you like the shots, sincerely.”

Mumford waved his hand, “Think nothing of it. Although I imagine it must have been more taxing actually capturing the photos.”

Albert laughed, nodding, “Absolutely exhausting. I had too many close shaves for my liking. _One_ close shave would have been too many, but I had to suffer three.”

Mumford smiled, watching Albert with an interested expression. “A man of resourcefulness, then. You struck me as such.”

“Oh nothing of the sort, Mr. Mumford, believe me,” he said, “I had some help along the way. A stranger who was kind enough to lend aid.”

“A kind stranger, hmm? How intriguing,” Mumford said, one brow raised.

“He certainly is a man of mystery. That’s him in the photograph over there.” Albert gestured back to the blue room he had come from. Mumford nodded without looking.

“Ah, so that’s who that is. I did wonder. What’s his name?”

“Arthur Morgan. He’s the one to thank for this exhibition,” Albert said softly, “I’d be nothing without him.”

Mumford smiled, “Well if I meet him I’ll be sure to pass on my thanks. Is he here?”

Albert was about to answer when shouting from within the gallery distracted them both. He turned and opened the balcony doors just as two figures rushed past and ran out of the gallery, and Albert could have sworn one of them was…

“Mr. Morgan?” Albert called after him but he got no response, and the gallery turned silent after the departure of the two figures. Albert’s gaze drifted away from the exit and towards the rest of the gallery, and his eyes widened in shock when he saw a number of unconscious people slumped in the new exhibition.

“Good Lord,” he said faintly, while Mumford slid past him and hurried over to the bodies, checking their pulses. Albert joined the other man, watching as he roused everyone. Monsieur Laurent appeared from around the corner, looking pale.

“Did you know that man, Mr. Mason?” he asked, his voice high.

“I think so.”

“What happened?” Mumford asked as he helped a gentleman to sit up.

“It was that blasted Châtenay. I knew I shouldn’t have displayed his works, they’re far too provocative. And now it seems his models were…” He trailed off, looking about the room. “I’m not sure how it started, I only saw his companion attacking these poor men!”

Albert frowned, “Oh dear,” he muttered.

Mumford rose, looking from Albert to Laurent, “Perhaps it’s best you see to these men, Monsieur,” he said, and Laurent nodded.

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry you gentlemen had to witness this.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” Albert answered.

Laurent glanced at Châtenay’s paintings, “I believe it is, somewhat.”

“Are you far from here, Mr. Mason?” Mumford asked.

“No,” Albert said, shaking his head. “The saloon down the street.”

“Will you allow me to accompany you there?”

Albert met his gaze, surprised, “Of course. Thank you.”

The two of them left Laurent standing in the mess of the room and quickly left the gallery, Albert’s mind still trying to process whether it really had been Arthur Morgan he’d seen.

“That was not how I was expecting the rest of today to go,” Albert said as they began walking. Mumford hummed in agreement.

“If I’m honest, sir, I had been hoping to meet you,” he said, “I… have a request, if you’ll indulge me.”

Albert frowned, not sure what to expect. “What is it?”

“I… work for a charitable organisation. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. The Preservation of American Wildlife Society? PAWS?”

“Did you think of the name or the acronym first?” Albert asked.

“Well, the acronym had to be memorable.”

“Otherwise what sort of organisation are you?” Albert said with a smile, “Yes, I’ve heard of it. I think I’d have to be living under a rock to not know of it.”

“We’ve been searching for someone distinguished who can help us promote awareness of the necessity of protecting our wildlife, and I believe you may be perfect for our cause.”

“Me?” Albert responded, his eyebrows rising. Distinguished? “I’m assuming you didn’t hear my speech back there. I am not exactly the most riveting of campaigners. My audience was barely listening.”

“Your audience was a crowd of socialites who care only about status and reputation. They don’t care for anything unless it’s fashionable to do so.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Tour the West with your photographs. All the major towns. Educate _real_ people. And then, once they’ve been persuaded and awareness rises, these parasites will take an interest and that’s when donations start coming in, and we can make a real change.”

“I think you overestimate my abilities, Mr. Mumford. I’m very flattered but I simply couldn’t–”

“Just think on it, sir,” Mumford said, his eyes determined. “I really think you can help us. All expenses would be covered, of course, and we’ll pay you well.”

That changed things slightly. Albert had assumed he’d be travelling as a volunteer. If that wasn’t the case though, as Mumford had clarified, he’d just found a new source of income. He could pay off his debts. And besides, the job sounded exciting. He was being given the chance to tour with his photographs, an opportunity usually given to only the most esteemed artists. _And_ he would be working for a worthy organisation: a charity wanted him to represent them and there was little else that made him feel so approved as he did at that moment. If money wasn’t an issue he would have said yes immediately, and now that he knew he would be paid, there really was no reason to say no.

“I’d be honored,” Albert said with a smile. “Thank you so much.”

“Fantastic,” Mumford responded, looking encouraged. “You’re staying at the saloon? I’ll need a day to confirm the plans I’ve made, and then I’ll be by tomorrow evening with full details on what we hope to do. We were thinking the first stop would be Van Horn, and then you’d travel west afterwards. Does that sound alright?”

“That sounds perfect,” Albert said as they stopped outside the saloon. “I wish I could tell you how grateful I am without using all the clichés.”

“We’re the grateful ones, Mr. Mason. I’m so glad you’ve agreed to assist us. I think you’re going to be an enormous help towards achieving our mission.”

They said goodbye and Albert entered the saloon feeling much more cheerful than when he’d left it that morning. He ordered a meal and sat down at a table, tucking in with renewed vigor. He had a purpose now, and _he didn’t have to return to New York._ And maybe while he was travelling, a new prospect would arise that would allow him to stay there on a more permanent basis.

From above him a gruff, familiar voice spoke.

“This seat taken?”


	3. Van Horn

“Mr. Morgan!”

The cowboy was watching him with one side of his mouth upturned, his blue eyes almost concealed by the brim of his hat. Albert gestured to the seat opposite him, sitting more upright.

“Please, sir, sit.”

“Been a while, Mr. Mason,” Arthur said, settling and leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t think I was gonna see you again. New York, weren’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” Albert replied, hurriedly wiping his mouth with a cloth as he finished his meal.

Arthur waited, his brow raised, “Change of plans?”

“New York is awful, Mr. Morgan. A cesspit of a city, really.”

“Ain’t that true of all cities?”

Albert laughed, “Not this one, I’ve found.”

A small smile formed as Arthur listened to him. “Perhaps not,” he said. “Although I do have a bone to pick with you.”

“Really? What for?”

“I seen that picture in the gallery ‘round the corner. Of me.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Reckon it’s real rude of you not to ask my permission.”

Albert shot him a look, “How on earth was I supposed to reach you? I’d have thought you’d be pleased.”

“I’m a wanted man, Mr. Mason. It don’t help me none to have my face plastered in a gallery.”

“Does your name accompany it? No, and I saw to that,” Albert retorted. “As I said, you should be pleased.” He fought a smile as he mirrored Arthur’s position, leaning forward and looking serious.

“Pleased, huh? Well I guess it don’t hurt to be admired once in a while.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Arthur shook his head, relaxing back into his chair and withdrawing a cigarette. “That why you’re here? The gallery?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed, “I don’t follow.”

“You were at the gallery, too. I saw you. And I saw the people you left unconscious, too.”

The other man blinked in surprise. “You were there? I didn’t see you.”

“I was out on the balcony.”

Arthur shifted, looking thoughtful. “You shoulda said hello.”

“I tried to, but you seemed a little preoccupied with running out of the building.”

“In my defense,” Arthur said, clearly fighting a smile as he pointed a finger. “I didn’t start that fight. I weren’t gonna get involved, even, but my uh… friend needed some help.” He glanced back at the bar. “You want a drink?”

“Thank you.” Albert watched as he made his way to the bar, leaning casually and waiting to get the bartender’s attention. The gunslinger oozed confidence in a way Albert could never, and he found he couldn’t take his eyes off him, only looking away when Arthur returned to the table. Albert accepted his glass with more thanks.

“You know Charles Châtenay?” he asked, “I was unaware you had friends in such high places.”

“You’d be surprised,” Arthur said as he took a sip. “I know the Mayor, too.”

Albert couldn’t tell if he was joking. Arthur was smiling wryly, one brow raised.

“Impressive,” said Albert.

“Eh,” Arthur said, waving his hand, “He ain’t worth knowing. Charles at least admits he’s an ass. He knows his paintings are gonna cause a stir.”

“I thought they were quite good,” Albert said.

“I’m sure you say that about every artist, Mr. Mason.”

Albert’s good mood faltered as he took another sip of his drink. Did Arthur think he was a pushover? _Was_ he a pushover? No, there were plenty of artists whose works he couldn’t enjoy, he was just polite enough to keep those opinions to himself.

“Mr. Châtenay certainly seems an interesting fellow,” he said.

“That ain’t even the half of it,” Arthur murmured into his glass. “Maybe I’ll tell ya how I met him some time.”

Could he not do it now? Albert had nowhere to be, but perhaps Arthur did. Perhaps Arthur needed to be somewhere more important. Well, he wasn’t going to keep him.

“That would be a pleasure,” Albert said, rising to his feet. “But if you don’t mind, Mr. Morgan, I have an early start tomorrow and I’d like to get a decent night’s sleep. I’m preparing for a trip to Van Horn, you see, and I don’t yet have everything I need.”

“Van Horn?” Arthur repeated, “How come?”

* * *

 

The stagecoach rattled loudly as it trundled along the dirt track, and Albert clutched his seat as he was bounced and jostled. In his hands he held Andrew Mumford’s instructions, advising him on where the exhibition was to be held and what time Albert should be there. When Mumford had visited him two nights ago he had been surprised to hear the man wouldn’t be accompanying him, but he had promised Albert he would try and catch him when the tour continued to Annesburg.

Albert had not been this far north in his travels, and the urge to tell the driver to stop while he leaped out and took some shots with his camera was very strong, but he made himself sit still, his fingers playing with the corners of the letter instead.

It was late morning by the time Albert arrived in Van Horn, giving him a few hours until the exhibition. He dropped his luggage off at the small, shabby hotel before wandering across the street to the saloon, where the exhibition was to be held. The bar had been closed for the day while preparations took place and was going to remain closed during the exhibition, and Albert passed some grumbling regulars loitering outside who gave him dirty looks as he slipped inside.

The saloon wasn’t much to look at, but from what he’d seen of the small settlement he hadn’t been expecting much. This was no New York City, and while Albert was grateful for that he couldn’t help feeling a pang of homesickness as he stepped into the unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people bustling around him.

“Uh, Adam Mason?”

A promising start.

* * *

 

Darkness had fallen, casting a shadow of the figure of Albert as he hurried from the saloon. His cheeks were hot and he’d ignored the man who had been hired to organize Van Horn’s section of the tour as he’d shouted after the photographer.

He jogged up the exterior steps to his room and shut the door behind him with a sigh, leaning against it and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before gathering himself together and lifting his bags onto the bed. He’d unpacked earlier that afternoon, thinking he’d spend tomorrow exploring the area around the small town but now he could think of nothing more appealing than gathering all his possessions and getting out of there.

A loud knock made Albert jump as he was in the middle of folding one of his shirts. He ignored his visitor and continued folding, desiring no business with anybody now.

“Mr. Mason? Mr. Mason, are you in there?”

Albert recognized the speaker as the young red-headed fellow who had greeted him in the saloon. His squeaky, southern-dipped voice continued. 

“Mr, um, Mumford said you’d be happy to remain at the exhibition and answer any questions, sir. Will you re-join us, please?”

A surge of incredulity had Mason opening the door to face the young organizer.

“Re-join you? _Re-join you_? There was nobody there!”

The man opposite him, whose name he hadn’t given, frowned, “That ain't true. At the bar, there were–”

“There were men who had forced their way inside to drink, not to listen to me. They hadn’t exactly queued up for tickets.”

“They were being too loud outside, we had no choice–”

“I know,” Albert said with a deep breath. “That’s my point. None of those men were there for the exhibition, and anyone who might have been was scared off by their arrival.”

“They… they might come back,” the man said. “So you could return to answer questions, like I said.”

“I might as will give the whole talk again,” Albert muttered.

“That wouldn’t be a problem, Mr. Mason. I’ll buy you a drink while you prepare yourself once more.”

“I’m not doing it again, sir. I’m not going back there.”

“But–”

“It’s late, and I would like to go to bed, if that’s alright with you.”

“But Mr. Mumford asked–”

“I don’t care what Mr. Mumford asked!” Albert shouted, lowering his voice when the man looked startled, “I’ll explain things to him myself; you needn’t worry.”

The organiser still appeared dubious, but he gave a slight nod before leaving, Albert shutting the door softly behind him. He looked at his clothing laid out on the bed, desiring nothing more in that moment than to just sink through the dirt and soil and naturally decompose so that he could leave an actual impression on the earth.

Instead, three minutes later while he was still standing there, there was another knock. He jumped again, spinning around as he clutched his chest.

“For pity’s sake,” Albert said, his heart hammering as he threw open the door with a sharp, “ _What_?”

Arthur Morgan stood opposite him, his hand raised and his mouth parted in surprise.

Albert was too stunned to keep hold of his anger, and he found himself staring at Arthur and simply saying, “Why?”

“Uh,” Arthur said, his brows knitting together, “I saw you come in here a few minutes ago. Wanted to say hello.”

Albert stepped back, letting Arthur in.

“Y’alright?”

“Just fine, thank you.”

“You don’t look it. Or sound it.”

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind, Mr. Morgan.” Albert ran a hand through his hair, his gaze falling on his clothes again.

Arthur shrugged, glancing around the small room, “Sure.” He found an empty corner and leant against the wall, lighting a cigarette. “You goin’ somewhere?”

“Saint Denis,” Albert answered, giving up on folding his clothes neatly and choosing instead to cram them into his bags. “And then New York.”

“What? What about your exhibition? Ain’t you goin’ on tour?”

“Not anymore. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Just like that?” Arthur asked, sounding dubious. “Well dontcha think you should attend tonight’s, at least?”

“I already have, and I was the only attendee.”

“Oh,” Arthur pulled out his pocket-watch, frowning down at it. “That’s uh… that’s a real shame.”

“Embarrassing, is what it is.”

“But ya know, Van Horn ain’t exactly a thrivin’ culture spot,” he continued, shoving his watch back into his pocket. “Small population, small lives, I guess. Did you really think they’d be interested?”

Albert felt his cheeks burn as he continued packing. “Perhaps I was a little optimistic. I see that now.”

“No, no, I mean–” Arthur cleared his throat, looking frustrated. “I didn’t mean no one came ‘cos of you. No one came because you went to Van Horn. Where’s next?”

“Annesburg.”

“ _Annesburg?_ ”

Albert spun, a defense on his tongue, “I didn’t choose–”

“I know, I know. Well, what about after that?”

“Valentine.”

“Who did you say organised this tour?”

“A man named Andrew Mumford. He works for PAWS.”

“He new to the company?”

Albert sighed, straightening and looking across at Arthur. “He’s been very kind in giving me this opportunity. I don’t care if he’s inexperienced. It’s not his fault if the only settlements around here are mining villages and livestock towns.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Arthur conceded, holding up his hands. “Besides, it’s only been a few days since you left Saint Denis, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s plenty of time for interest to rise. More people will come, you’ll see.”

“As uplifting as your certainty is, Mr. Morgan, you can’t know that for sure.”

“I sure can. You’ll have one extra person there, at least.”

Albert laughed, glancing away. “I’ll be sure to reserve you a ticket.”

“Best you reserve a few,” Arthur said with a wry smile. “I think I could persuade any nearby loiterers to attend.”

“I’d prefer that they were a willing audience, not a coerced one.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Mason, I got plenty of means of persuasion.”

Albert perched on the edge of his bed, shaking his head. “Non-violent ones, please.”

“Of course.”

Arthur finished his cigarette, throwing the stub out of the window. He cleared his throat and stepped closer to the bed, gently brushing aside a shirt so he could sit. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, looking at the floor.

“Your photographs are… quite something,” he said quietly. Albert glanced across at him but couldn’t see his eyes, hidden as they were by the brim of his hat. “I hope you know that.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Morgan. Sometimes I don’t know where I’d be were it not for your timely appearances.”

“Coincidences are a hell of a thing.”

Albert hummed in agreement, smiling to himself. “That pocket-watch of yours,” he began, watching as Arthur shifted. “Did I see an engraving on it?”

“Oh,” Arthur withdrew it from his pocket, handing it over. “Just my initials. The shopkeeper I bought it from offered to do it. Didn’t see why he shouldn’t.”

As Arthur spoke Albert turned it over in his hands, the metal cool against his skin. He watched the second hand tick for a moment, humming again as he passed it back.

“It’s not been wound correctly, by the way. It’s an hour late.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“It’s lucky you haven’t missed any important engagements.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Arthur nodded as he rose, flashing a smile as he edged to the door. “When’s the Annesburg exhibition?”

“Four days’ time.”

“I’ll see you there, Mr. Mason. G’night.”

“Don’t be late next time,” Albert called after him, suppressing a chuckle as Arthur bumped into the doorframe when he twisted at Albert’s words.

“I won’t – yep – goodbye, Mr. Mason.” The door closed loudly behind him, and Albert felt his insides warm at the muffled curse from outside.


	4. Annesburg

Four days traveled by far faster than Albert had anticipated, and on the morning of the next exhibition he withdrew his journal from his satchel and opened it up, scratching a line through the last addition on his to-do list. He had decided upon leaving Van Horn that he wasn’t going to sit around and hope for the best; if he wanted a decent outcome from his talk then he was going to make damn sure he’d done everything he could to ensure that.

So he made flyers. Hastily scribbled flyers, granted, but they at least conveyed the relevant information. What the exhibition was, where it would be, what time it would start. What followed was four days in Annesburg spent bothering people with said flyers, posting them underneath doors, sticking them to telephone posts, and darting down alleyways with them when people swung from mildly irritated to flat-out angry.

He spoke to regulars at the nearby saloon, trying to get them interested in wildlife and wildlife preservation. A small number seemed genuinely intrigued, whereas most slapped Albert on the back and regaled him with tales of their hunting exploits, leaving him shaky and feeling ill.

He’d seen no sign of Arthur in those four days, and while Albert had had moments where he wondered whether the other man would actually show up, he always promptly tossed those thoughts aside, reasoning that the outlaw hadn’t let him down so far. He had his own things to be doing and Albert wasn’t going to entertain the notion that he occupied a significant aspect of Arthur’s life.

Because spending days and nights thinking about one man would be absurd.

Albert had also exploited the free child labor in these parts – completely unintentionally, that was. On the first day of his arrival in Annesburg he’d been standing outside the degrading warehouse that was to house the exhibit with his hands on his hips, trying to think of ways to make the building look more enticing to passers-by. A young boy of around eleven had emerged from the maze of houses behind him and marched across the tracks until he was stood next to Albert.

“Whatcha doing, mister?”

Albert frowned down at him, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

The child shrugged, “Momma needs me at home. Whatcha doing?”

“Have you ever been to an art gallery? No? Well, do you know what one is? I am here to show everyone photographs I have taken of animals that need our protection, but this warehouse doesn’t seem all that inviting.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Alligators, wolves, cougars… the more frightening ones, really, but don’t let that deter you. They still require our protection just as much as the softer, fluffier animals of the wild. Their pelts are quite valuable, you see, and so they often become the targets of hunters.”

“I seen a bear, once.”

“Good heavens, have you really?”

“It was real big,” the boy continued, staring up at Albert with wide eyes. “It killed my brother.”

“Good heavens,” Albert repeated, his voice faint.

“Do bears need protectin’, too?”

“Y-yes, most of them.”

The boy frowned, thinking. “My pa shot the one I saw.”

“Well, it sounds like that was in self-defense. Your father was keeping you safe. What I think is wrong is when men kill animals because they find it fun, do you understand?”

“I think so. It killed my pa, too.”

“Oh.”

“He got bit and Momma said his arm got infected and that’s why he died.”

“That’s, um, that’s a terrible thing to happen. It must have been very hard for you–”

“I’ll help you decorate if you want, mister.”

“Oh! Well that is most kind. What do you have in mind? I’m open to any ideas.”

The child thought for a moment, gazing up at the tired structure. “I could draw some animals and stick them on the wall? And I’ll get the other kids to help.”

The idea was so heart-warming that Albert couldn’t say no. “A capital idea, my boy. Here,” He rummaged in his satchel and pulled out an empty journal, one he would have filled once his current one was complete. “Use this. Once you’re done, we’ll cut the drawings out and apply them around the door. I don’t think we have enough time to cover the whole building.”

“That’s ok, I don’t think I can think of enough animals to do that anyway. See ya!”

“The event’s in four days, come and find me before then!” The boy ran back into the maze of houses with a wave, leaving Albert to wonder if he was ever going to see that journal again. Over the next couple of days, though, as he was going in and out of the warehouse to set up the exhibit, he would have numerous children run up to him to show him their drawings, and he delighted in every ever-so-slightly-questionable-looking bear, alligator, wolf, horse, dog, cat, rabbit, and chicken that he saw. And just as quickly as they arrived the children would run back to wherever they came from, and Albert would wonder just exactly how many young workers he had in his employ.

Now, though, as he put his journal away and watched fifteen boys and girls stick their animal outlines around the warehouse doors, Albert could safely say that he had done everything he could to attract as large an audience as possible.

“Mr. Mason, you’ve not drawn one.”

The boy he’d first met came over to him, offering back his journal, which now had only two or three pages left.

“Do you know, I’ve been so busy I completely forgot,” Albert said with a smile. “What do you think I should draw, hmm? What’s not been done?” He studied the paper cuttings, looking for a creature that wasn’t gathered around the entrance.

“There’s no deer.”

“Yes, you’re quite right. Though deer are less endangered than other species. Less hostile, too.”

“My brother got hit by one of them big ones once.”

“Ah, you’re thinking of a stag, dear boy,” Albert replied, not wanting to know whether that was the same brother who was killed by the bear. “Yes, they can be rather dangerous, can’t they?” He opened the journal and began sketching. “Now, you’ve seen the photographs inside?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like them?”

“I liked the wolves.”

“Excellent. This sketch will have you thinking I’ve never seen a stag in my life but as long as you like the photographs, I can live with that.”

“You’re kinda odd, Mr. Mason, do you know that?”

Albert smiled, “Yes, I’ve been informed by a few people. Actually, one of them is a rather good artist. I should have gotten him to draw this for me.” He finished his poor excuse for a stag and ripped out the page. “There,” he said, “Would you mind adding it to the collection?”

“Sure. I’ll cut it out as well.”

“Wonderful. You’ve been a great help to me, you know. You, and all the other children here. What do you say to gathering your friends once the exhibition is over, and I’ll buy you all one piece of candy from the store as my way of saying thank you?”

“Really?” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thanks, mister! I’ll tell the others.”

“Be sure you do. I’ll see you all later.” The child ran off and Albert stepped back to admire the artwork that adorned the exterior. If nothing else it would pique curiosity, and that was all Albert wanted.

There were still several hours to spare until the exhibition began and so Albert headed to his rented room, planning to revise his notes and prepare for his talk.

“Mr. Mason!”

He stopped suddenly, turning to find the source of the voice and spotted Andrew Mumford stepping out of a stagecoach, waving at him.

“Good morning,” Mumford greeted as he walked over. “How go the preparations?”

“We’re making do,” Albert said with a smile, shaking the other’s hand, “Though I don’t know how receptive the people of Annesburg are going to be.”

“Ah, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“I admire your optimism but I’d rather not suffer the same humiliation I felt in Van Horn, Mr. Mumford.”

Mumford smiled sheepishly. “Yes, I heard about that. I’m very sorry we couldn’t garner enough interest. Making your photographs appealing to the public proved more difficult than we at PAWS had first thought.”

“Right,” Albert replied, stepping back a bit as he processed what Mumford said. He was certain the man didn’t mean to imply that his photographs weren’t as impressionable as the charity had hoped they’d be, but Albert still needed a moment to convince himself.

Taking a step back, though, meant stepping into the road, and Albert was only just quick enough in leaping out of the way of a man on a galloping horse.

“Watch it!” The stranger snarled, glaring back at the photographer.

“S-sorry!” Albert called, brushing himself down in an effort to calm down.

“Are you alright?” Mumford asked, taking his elbow.

“Certainly,” Albert replied, breathing heavily. “Shouldn’t have stepped into the street like that.”

“I would have stopped you, only I thought you saw that stranger coming.”

“Get to know me well enough, Mr. Mumford, and you’ll soon learn that I possess little to no awareness of oncoming threats.”

Mumford smiled, “I’ll bear that in mind, then.”

 “Anyway,” Albert sighed, feeling his cheeks heat in embarrassment. “I’m sure this evening’s exhibit will prove much more successful than the last one.”

“I guarantee it,” Mumford said. “I’ll be watching from the wings so that gives you one attendee, if nothing else.”

“You will? I’d have thought you’d have more important things to attend to.”

“Nonsense. This is my project, after all, and if tonight _is_ as disastrous as Van Horn – though I dearly hope it is not – I will at least be here to personally take responsibility.”

“How reassuring,” Albert replied, panicky thoughts jabbing at his mind, flaunting the possibility of another no-show show. “I think I’ll be getting back to my room now, if you don’t mind. I’d like some time to go over my notes.”

“Of course, of course,” Mumford said. “I do want to ask, though, if you’ll be willing to stick around once you’ve finished your talk? I feel as though we’ve yet to have a proper conversation where we’re not rushed for time or standing in the middle of the street.”

“I’d like that, Mr. Mumford. I’ll find you once things have settled, yes?”

“Please do.”

The two of them shook hands again and as Albert turned to leave, he clipped the shoulder of a tall broad-chested stranger, sending him stumbling sideways with a surprised yelp.

“What’s your problem?” the man demanded, grabbing Albert’s arm and hauling him closer.

“No problem, sir, I assure you,” Albert said quickly, trying to twist out of the stranger’s grip.

“You oughta be more careful, _friend_ ,” he hissed, eyes narrowing.

Out of his peripheral Albert saw Mumford step forward, and he was about to warn him not to get involved – believing the stranger would have no trouble taking the two of them on – when the larger man let go of him, backing away.

“I ain’t gonna be so forgivin’ next time,” he muttered before striding off, his boots clomping loudly.

“You seem to have a penchant for getting yourself into trouble,” Mumford mused, one brow raised as he put a comforting hand on Albert’s shoulder.

“Yes, you’d think I’d be used to it by now but my heart is a jumpy little thing.”

“Perhaps you should invest in some form of protection. A bodyguard, maybe?”

“I’m not that helpless,” Albert countered, seeing the twinkle in the other man’s eye.

“Well, I shall keep an eye on you later on, don’t you worry. Need me to walk you back to your room?”

“Very funny. Good day, Mr. Mumford.”

“Good day, Albert. The best of luck for tonight.”

* * *

 

The makeshift gallery opened its doors for attendees at 5.30pm, with Albert’s talk beginning at 6pm. At 5.35pm Andrew Mumford showed up, chatting to Albert for a few minutes in an attempt to calm his nerves before disappearing into another room in order to ensure everything would go smoothly. Checking his watch five minutes later, Albert began to feel the familiar twinges of doubt poisoning his bloodstream, feeding off his hope that people would show up. He still hadn’t seen Arthur Morgan, and he wondered if the other man had forgotten, or if he was simply being polite in Van Horn when he’d said he’d come.

At 5.45pm three women and two men paid for their tickets and entered, and Albert remembered speaking to them in the saloon two days ago when he’d resorted to going up to strangers and trying to persuade them to take an interest in wildlife preservation. Clearly, the method had been somewhat successful.

He greeted each of them and exchanged pleasantries before letting them wander around the exhibits to look at the photographs while his gaze fell back on the entrance, wondering if his audience was going to be those five people.

At 5.50pm fifteen children ran in, swarming Albert and throwing questions at him.

“Uh. Hello my dears,” he said, his hands automatically raised in defense. “You’re not all here for the exhibit, are you?”

The boy with the morbid upbringing, whom Albert had developed a soft spot for, pushed his way forward.

“We got tickets, Mr. Mason.”

“You – you did? I didn’t expect you to come. And I _certainly_ didn’t want you to spend your money on me!”

“I got my art put up next to an actual artist’s. My momma wanted to come and see that. And I guess so did everyone else’s.”

“But your drawings are outside. You weren’t charged for that, were you?”

“No but I don’t know if you know, mister, but it’s started raining outside and Momma said ‘we might as well go in and see what all the fuss is about.’ She saw the flyers.”

Albert smiled, “Well I hope she likes what she sees. I hope you all do. Feel free to go and have a look around, now. And don’t forget to meet me outside the store once this is finished. I promised you all candy, and by God you’re getting candy!”

The children scattered themselves around the gallery and Albert took it upon himself to seek out the parents and guardians of each one to thank them for coming, receiving mostly positive words in response.

6pm arrived quicker than Albert had anticipated, and he extracted himself from a conversation about frog’s legs and dashed to the top of the gallery where a raised platform and a small podium had been set up for him.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen!” he called, the buzzing chatter that filled the room quieting as people diverted their attention to him. “Thank you all so much for coming. I must say I didn’t expect to see so many faces here tonight. And I didn’t expect to see _any_ children,” he added, the smatter of laughter that followed fueling his confidence. He stepped away from the podium, choosing to wander back and forth in front of his crowd.

“Now, if you’ll offer me your attention for the next forty-five minutes or so, I am here to expose to you the crisis our wildlife is facing today, and I hope you are able to see how necessary it is for us to take action as soon as possible.”

As he was speaking Albert heard the entrance doors creak open, and he glanced over to see a familiar hat winding through the crowd, with five others following. He caught Arthur Morgan’s eye as the man looked up, and Albert subtly tapped his watch as he continued talking, fighting a smile when he saw Arthur mouth, “Sorry.”

“I’ve been fortunate enough in snapping photographs of some of our greatest predators,” he continued, “and with the help of the Preservation of American Wildlife Society – or PAWS, for short–” There was another rumble of laughter, “I now have the opportunity to show the American public that although these animals can be fearsome, they are still beautiful. They are still a part of God’s Earth, and we do not possess the right to control what lives and what dies in this land. We must learn to live peacefully with these creatures, killing only when it is necessary: for food or in self-defense, and in return we can watch this great nation thrive, knowing that we had the humility to see the destruction we were causing, knowing that we saved it from ourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I have to suddenly learn how to write a good speech (spoiler alert: it didn't work)
> 
> Which gang members would you take (or force to go) to a wildlife photography exhibition? I'm curious to know if you'd choose the same as me.


	5. Annesburg II

Thirty minutes later and Albert could relax. There was a ripple of polite applause once his speech was over, and it was only then that he noticed how much his heart was hammering. His mouth was parched as well, and his newest priority became getting a drink somewhere. Catching the eye of the boy who had been so helpful in making his exhibition appealing, Albert beckoned him over and gave him enough money to buy candy for himself and the other children. He would have gone with him, but his desire to speak to Arthur was more pressing.

Actually, no. As much as he did not want to, Albert had promised to go with Mumford.

He was acutely aware of Arthur’s eyes on him even as the guests he’d brought talked to each other around him, but Albert avoided heading over in lieu of pulling aside a volunteer who’d help set things up.

“Have you seen Mr. Mumford?” he asked her, casting his eyes about the space as he spoke.

“Uh, no sir,” the young woman answered, also looking around. “I can go find him for you?”

“Thank you. I’ll just be over there.” He gestured to where Arthur was standing and the woman nodded before disappearing into another room. At least he’d get a few minutes with the outlaw before he had to leave.

“Glad you could make it,” Albert called as he walked across the room. When Arthur heard him he swiftly shooed his group outside, and Albert smiled as a younger, scraggly-looking man grumbled, only to be guided away by a gray-haired gentleman.

“Sorry we was late,” Arthur muttered once Albert neared.

“Forget to wind your pocket-watch?” Albert teased, and Arthur shifted, a flicker of embarrassment on his face.

“No, no, I did that. We just, er… somethin’ came up.”

“I see,” he said, wondering if Arthur was going to say more. He could guess what the nature of that ‘something’ was, knowing Arthur’s background. The outlaw never revealed much about his life but Albert wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the Wanted posters. In fact, he recognised a couple of the members of Arthur’s group from their own posters. In all his encounters with him, though, Arthur had never shown him anything less than kindness, and while they may have been a result of the outlaw hiding his true identity, Albert had decided to judge him only by what he actually knew of the other man.

If that led to his ruin… then he didn’t know Arthur as well as he thought he did. Perhaps that was naïve, but Albert had always been one to try and see the good in others, even if – nine times out of ten – he was promptly taken advantage of.

“It doesn’t matter,” he added, “You didn’t miss a thing.”

“Well what I did see, I thought was real nice.”

“You’re too kin–”

“The drawings outside, in particular, are quite something,” Arthur continued, a twinkle in his eye. “They your handiwork as well?”

“Oh, er, no. Well… one of them. A stag. I met some children…” Albert trailed off, hearing how ridiculous he sounded, and knowing how ridiculous the rest of it was.

Arthur was considering him with one brow raised. “Met some children, huh?”

“Yes, and I soon put them to work. It’s their sketches outside. I found them quite charming.”

“You said you drew one? Interestin’.” Arthur pretended to think, and Albert knew he was about to receive a teasing remark, “Ya know, I couldn’t tell you which one it was.”

“Mr. Morgan!” Albert exclaimed, clutching his chest and feigning offence. “How very dare you. You simply didn’t examine them close enough. Come on.” He took Arthur’s arm and began tugging him towards the exit.

“Now hold on a minute,” Arthur said, his teasing tone vanishing, but Albert ignored him and the pair emerged outside. Before Albert could say anything about the drawing, though, the older gentleman who had accompanied Arthur spotted them and drew closer.

“Mr. Mason, was it?” he asked with a smile, holding out his hand. “Hosea Matthews.”

Behind Hosea, a younger man with scraggly hair started forward, a frown on his features. “Hosea–” he began, a warning tone evident in his voice, but Hosea waved him off.

“He knows Arthur’s name, doesn’t he? Relax, John.” ‘John’ looked even more frustrated at his own name being revealed, but he kept quiet and crossed his arms, fading into the back of the group. Albert shot Arthur a confused look, but he was too busy smirking at the other man to notice him.

“Quite a speech,” Hosea continued. “You’ve a real knack for public speaking, you know. Didn’t seem nervous at all.”

“Oh. Well, thank you,” Albert said, wondering how Hosea had known he was nervous.

“I told ya you’d be fine, didn’t I?” Arthur added, raising a brow.

“And your photographs are amazing!” A young brunette woman pushed her way forward, clutching the hand of another woman.

“This is, uh, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill and Miss Tilly Jackson,” Arthur said, gesturing to the two of them. “They heard me talkin’ about your event and insisted they come along too.”

“I’m so glad you did. A pleasure to meet you.” Albert shook their hands and flashed them a smile, hardly able to comprehend that complete strangers wanted to come and listen to him.

“I never seen Annesburg so full,” Tilly Jackson said. “Didn’t think nobody did anything interesting ‘round here.”

“I’d love to hear the stories behind your photos,” Mary-Beth added. “Your life seems extraordinary.”

“We’re going to get a drink,” Hosea told him. “And I think we’d all appreciate your company.”

“Oh, I would love to but I promised a colleague a meeting with him. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Not to worry, sir,” Hosea said as his companions began walking away. He patted Arthur’s shoulder to prompt him. “We shall be in that _bierhalle_ over there if you find a spare moment. Good evening to you.” He flashed Albert another smile before corralling his group across the street to the nearby saloon. Arthur hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, lowering his voice.

“If you get a moment, come and say goodbye, will ya? I was hoping to speak with you.”

Albert felt his brows rise as a surge of warmth blossom from within him. “I shall try.”

Arthur nodded, moving away from him and tipping his hat, “Was a real good speech, Mr. Mason.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Albert said softly. He hadn’t even realising he’d used the outlaw’s Christian name until he watched the other man stumble into the road, righting himself with a huff and striding quickly away.

Albert wandered back into the exhibition, surprised to note a few people were still lingering to look at his photographs, but as he cast his eye over all of them he couldn’t pick out Mr. Mumford. He spotted the young woman he’d spoken to earlier and caught her eye.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason,” she said as she approached him. “Mr. Mumford said he had some urgent business to attend to. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to disturb you while you were with your friends.”

“Oh, well that’s a shame,” Albert said, feeling the complete opposite of disheartened. He was already imagining marching across the street to join Arthur and his friends.

“He told me to tell you he hopes to see you at the next segment of your tour.”

“Ah, that’ll be in Valentine,” Albert commented. “I’m sure I’ll run into him there. Thank you.”

He took one last look around the exhibition, wondering whether the future ones would look a bit more professional than this hastily put-together one. These may be small towns he was touring but Albert still wanted to make an impression. For all he knew prospective employers could read of his work in local newspapers, and he’d rather reporters lauded over his achievements than lamented over the shabby set-up. He would have to speak with Mr. Mumford to know what the other man had planned for the remainder of the tour.

As Albert was heading towards the door, looking forward to winding down with Arthur, a quiet voice from the side drew his attention.

“Mr. Mason?”

It was a whisper of a question, directed only at Albert and imperceptible to anyone else, and the deep cadence of the utterance compelled him to turn his head, to learn the face behind the voice.

A tall Native American man with long, tied back hair was watching him with his arms crossed, his expression impenetrable. Albert drew closer to him with a weak smile.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, holding out his hand. The man glanced down at it before looking back up to Albert, his arms remaining crossed. Albert slowly withdrew his hand.

“I’ve not heard of PAWS.” He spoke as if that was Albert’s fault.

“Oh, there’s actually less of an influence in these parts, where it’s needed most, to be frank. I believe they’re based in the Northeast. West Virginia, I think–”

“Where will I find their representatives here?”

“Um, that would be me,” Albert said with a small laugh. The man’s frown intensified.

“I thought you were working _with_ them, not for them.”

Albert blinked, his voice wavering. “I’m not sure how you know that sir, but in working with the charity, I am also representing them. Anything I say reflects the values of PAWS, I can assure you.” He straightened his back and also crossed his arms, trying to look convincing. The man raised one brow and Albert deflated immediately.

“It’s hard to be serious when the charity you work with is named ‘PAWS’,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. When he dropped it the stranger’s look had softened.

“Don’t doubt yourself, Mr. Mason.”

He blinked, confused at the relaxed tone. “Thank you?”

“My name is Charles Smith. I believe you know my friend, Arthur Morgan?”

“Oh my God,” Albert sighed, all the tension escaping from his shoulders, “Did he persuade you to intimidate me like that?”

“No. I decided to do that myself.”

“Oh. I see now why you two are friends.”

Charles nodded, gesturing to the nearest of Albert’s prints; the Lemoyne alligator. “Arthur told me the story behind this one. According to him, you were very determined to put him in the path of those gators…”

“I’m starting to wish I’d succeeded.”

“…But your passion for these creatures is very clear to me. I don’t think many photographers would endanger themselves for such a belief.”

“Those horses were hardly dangerous, Mr. Smith.”

“You shouldn’t be so self-depricating. You deserve to take pride in your work.”

Charles’ words were so direct they made Albert uncomfortable, unused to taking such praise. He smiled awkwardly, hoping desperately he wasn’t blushing.

“I do, Mr. Smith,” he said, still smiling. “Photography can be a rather solitary pursuit, and sometimes the self can be the harshest critic.”

“I understand. You’re fighting for an admirable cause, though, and I hope this tour of yours reminds you of the necessity of your work.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Albert said, certain now that he was blushing. “Now I must insist you leave before you turn me into a tearful wreck.”

“As long as you come with me. I know Arthur was looking forward to seeing you and if you repeat that to him I’ll insert this throwing knife into your neck.”

Albert laughed as they exited the warehouse but when he saw that Charles’ expression was completely serious his smile dropped and they crossed the street in silence.

It was quiet in the saloon for the time of night, with only a few patrons huddled around the bar and a couple of tables filled with slumped backs and drooping eyes. In one corner though, close to the bar, sat Arthur and his companions, chatting amongst themselves as they sipped from beer bottles and whiskey tumblers.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, Albert noticed Arthur perk up and rise from his seat, excusing himself from the table as he met them at the bar.

“Wondered where you’d gotten to, Charles,” he said, gesturing to the bartender. “What’re you havin’?”

“Beer.”

“Mr. Mason?”

“Um, I’ll have one too.” The bartender nodded and fetched two bottles, uncapping them and passing them over.

“Didn’t take you for a beer fella,” Arthur noted.

“Oh, I don’t mind the odd one.” The truth was Albert had no clue what drinks were on offer there, and he didn’t want to ask in front of Arthur’s friends and look a fool. He lacked the confidence to say what he wanted and assume the bar stocked it. Instead, he’d put up with his bottle of beer, which he’d never acquired a taste for.

Next to him, Charles raised his bottle, “To you, Mr. Mason. Congratulations on your exhibition.”

“Oh, well… thank you–” As he stuttered through his thanks, Arthur and Charles clinked their bottles and took a swig, and Albert hurriedly took a sip as well, grateful that he didn’t choke and spit it back out.

“I’m gonna go take a seat,” Charles said, “Try and cheer John up a little.”

“You forced him to come?” Albert asked, looking between the two as they shared a look.

“No. I didn’t force him to do a thing,” Arthur replied. “I asked Hosea and Charles, and they were s’posed to be the only two that came. But then Miss Jackson overheard me speaking with Charles, and she insisted that we bring her along so she could get out of our camp for a while.”

“And there’s no saying ‘no’ to Miss Jackson.”

“Exactly. So she goes and brags to Miss Gaskill, and Miss Gaskill spins me the same sad tale of needing to get away from the gang and reconnecting with society. But–” he added, noting Albert’s deflating mood, “I woulda told them ‘no’ if they didn’t think they’d appreciate your exhibition. You ain’t no distraction.”

“Appreciated,” Albert said with a small smile.

“And at the same time,” Arthur paused to chuckle and shake his head, looking over his shoulder at John’s sulking form. “Little Johnny Marston and his, uh… _sweetheart_ had a little spat and he came running over to me so he could get away from her.”

“So half my audience was people running away from their troubles?”

“If our circumstances were different,” Charles interrupted, “We would have come without needing any further incentives. If I’d have known of this without Arthur telling me, I would have come.”

“And the girls ain’t liars. They really did appreciate your photographs and your speech.”

“I know,” Albert said, “I was joking. But thank you. Again.”

Charles tipped his bottle at him before heading over to his fellow gang members, settling in between John Marston and Tilly Jackson.

“Quite the troupe you’ve assembled,” Albert observed, and Arthur smiled.

“They’re good folk. I knew they’d value your work. John would too, if he was in the right state of mind.”

“You needn’t excuse him, Mr. Morgan. He obviously learned where you were going and still wanted to come along, and that’s enough for me.”

“Where’re you headed next?”

“Valentine. Next week. I’m not sure how well I’ll be received there but the Heartlands are beautiful, and I’ll take any chance to revisit them. My camera has been woefully neglected and that’ll be the perfect opportunity to use it again.”

Arthur nodded, clearly mulling over something, and Albert chose to remain silent until the other man spoke up.

“I been thinking,” Arthur said after a few moments. “Well… wondering, really. About you. About your work,” he added hastily.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“I know you, uh, get caught up in your pictures and that can make you overlook any… nearby threats.”

“Right.”

“And that – that ain’t a bad thing,” he added, seeing Albert frown. “I was just thinking, maybe you could use someone – maybe you could use _me_ – to, uh, stand by in case… in case…”

“In case I hurt myself?” Albert asked, one brow raised.

“No, _no_. That ain’t – I didn’t mean–”

“If you wanted to come along with me Mr. Morgan, you need only ask,” he said with a smile. “I’d much prefer you accompanied me as yourself, not as a bodyguard.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, looking relieved now that he didn’t need to keep stuttering out his thoughts. “I think I would like that, too.”

“It’ll be nearly a month away, though, can your friends spare you for that long?”

“They’ll manage,” he replied, looking over his shoulder again, “And I could use the break, to be honest with you.”

“Running away as well?”

“A little,” Arthur admitted. “Things have been kinda rough lately. I’d appreciate some time to clear my head.”

“Anything to help you, Arthur,” Albert said softly, not aware he’d used his first name again until he spotted a faint blush on Arthur’s cheeks. “I leave for Valentine in two days, do you want to meet me here?”

“Sure.”

“Wonderful,” Albert pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll say goodnight to your friends and then return to my room.”

“’Course.” Arthur stepped aside to let Albert through, but in his haste to collect his beer from the bar and head over to the corner, Albert knocked the shoulder of a passing stranger. He watched in dawning horror as the man’s drink tipped down his front, and as his stare rose to meet Albert’s, the photographer realised with rising embarrassment that this was the same stranger who he had bumped into on the sidewalk earlier that day. The same stranger who had said he would not be so forgiving the next time they met.

“So sorry–” Albert started, but the man was clutching his shirt and slamming him against the bar before he had time to finish. Pain spiked up his back as it connected with the wooded surface, and he heard his bottle smash as it fell from his hands. The stranger’s fist reared up, no doubt preparing to connect with his jaw, but he was swiftly intercepted by Arthur, who grabbed his arm and pulled backwards, twisting it and forcing the stranger to the ground.

“I don’t know what your problem is, friend,” Arthur growled, stepping over the man and pressing his boot on the outstretched arm. “But if you don’t back the hell off, you ain’t gonna have no feelin’ in this arm for much longer.”

The man’s free hand swerved up and clipped Arthur’s brow and he grunted as he staggered back, giving the stranger the opportunity to swipe at Arthur’s legs with his foot until they had swapped positions; the man straddling Arthur as the outlaw struggled beneath him. They were matched in weight and size, and Albert could already see a trickle of blood running down the side of Arthur’s face.

“Let’s take this outside,” the stranger snarled, darks eyes flaring, “And I’ll show ya how to end a dispute like a man.”

“After you,” Arthur replied, his voice strained. His heart thumping heavily at the thought of the ensuing brawl, Albert stepped forward, prepared to put himself between Arthur and the man. Before he could get much closer, though, a large hand clasped his shoulder and tugged him back until he found himself standing behind Charles. Hosea and John drew up beside the Native American, and Albert heard the cocks of three revolvers as they pointed themselves at the stranger.

“You best be leaving, sir,” Hosea said in a mild-mannered tone, but Albert could detect the cold fury beneath it. From between Charles and John, Albert watched as the man looked between the three of them before letting Arthur go with a low grumble, getting to his feet and moping out of the saloon with more quiet utterances.

“A remarkable shot but a lousy fighter,” Hosea sighed as he helped Arthur up. “You get taken by surprise too easily, son.”

“Where’s Mason?” he muttered, looking up at the photographer when Charles and John parted. “Y’alright?” he asked, concern bleeding into his tone.

“Are _you_ alright?” Albert retorted as he moved closer, his hand hovering around Arthur’s brow. “You need to get that seen to.”

“It’s nothin’,” he grumbled, waving Albert off.

“We’ll take care of it, Mr. Mason, don’t you worry,” Miss Jackson said from behind him. She and Miss Gaskill were nearby, looking warily at the doors. “What a beast of a man.”

“The hell has he got against you?” John Marston asked, speaking directly to Albert for the first time.

“I encountered him earlier when I was with Mr. Mumford,” Albert said, “I bothered him then, too.”

“Well as long as you’re alright, I think it best we go,” Hosea commented, “Before we cause a larger ruckus in this nice establishment.” His companions murmured their agreement and they began to file towards the door after saying their goodbyes to Albert. Charles squeezed his shoulder before going and John offered him a curt nod, and then it was just he and Arthur, who was looking at the floor.

“I think you were right.” He thinks Andrew Mumford was right.

 “’Bout what?”

“About needing a bodyguard. I can’t seem to go anywhere without running into some form of trouble.”

“You don’t want a bodyguard who can’t fight back.”

“Arthur,” he said with intention, suppressing a smile at the red tint that returned to the man’s cheeks. “Look at me.” He waited until those green eyes met his. “You defended me, you put yourself in harm’s way for me, and that’s more than any friend I’ve had has ever done. I don’t need some impressive bodyguard to accompany me. I need you.”

Arthur’s blush strengthened and his gaze dropped to the floor again. “I’d be glad to,” he muttered.

“Then I’ll see you in two days.”

“That you will. Albert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head this story is set during Chapter 4 which is why Arthur notes that things are a little rough within the gang at the moment.


	6. Valentine

The sun was blazing over the Heartlands as Albert and Arthur rode into Valentine, Albert having declined the stagecoach in Annesburg in favor of riding alongside Arthur. He gazed out appreciatively at the grassy scenery as the livestock town neared, and then their attention was focused on manoeuvring around the locals who wandered into the street.

“You wanna get our rooms?” Arthur asked as they hitched outside the hotel. “I’ll get the luggage.”

“Of course.” Albert headed inside, wanting to get this part over with so he could go back outdoors with his camera.

“Good day sir,” he announced, addressing the man behind the counter, who had his feet propped on the desk and his face behind a newspaper. “Two rooms for the next four nights, if you please.”

“Only got one room,” said the voice from behind the paper. “Rest are booked.”

“Only… oh,” Albert muttered, his gaze flicking to the door and seeing Arthur through the glass as the man fed the horses sugar cubes with a cheerful expression. “Are they… are they single beds? In the room?”

“Nope.”

“Oh dear.”

The newspaper rustled as the owner peered over it, following Albert’s gaze. “I get all sorts through here. You seen them girls over in the saloon?”

“No,” Albert said, returning his stare to the owner. The man smiled slightly.

“I don’t suppose you have. Well, they bring fellas in here all the time, but as long as I’m being paid I’m happy to ignore it.”

“Right…” he offered, not sure what the owner was intending.

The man rolled his eyes. “I can be discreet.” He nodded at Arthur. “Ain’t gotta keep up the pretense of needin’ two rooms when you’re here. Like I said, I get all sorts.”

“Oh no, sir,” Albert said hurriedly. “It’s – it’s not that… we’re merely friends, I can assure you.”

The owner flicked his newspaper back up. “Well then if you’re _merely friends_ what’s the problem in sharin’ a bed? It’s big enough for the both of you.”

“I – it’s just… I think we’d rather–”

“One room or no room. That’s all I can offer.”

Albert sighed, dreading to think what Arthur was going to say. He pulled out his wallet. “One room, please.”

* * *

The unfortunate transaction complete, Albert met Arthur outside and took the luggage from him, ignoring his confused protestations as he backed up towards the hotel whilst telling the cowboy to stay outside. He dashed upstairs and dumped his bags on the large double bed, steadfastly refusing to entertain any thoughts of the pair of them sleeping there later that evening. He was back outside moments later, smiling brightly at Arthur’s puzzled face as he climbed up onto his horse.

“Ready to go?”

“Uh, sure,” Arthur said as they edged their horses out of town and headed south. “Everythin’ alright with the hotel?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I dunno, you’re just actin’ kinda… odd. More than usual.”

“Ha ha,” he said sardonically. “I’m fine, Arthur, really.” Albert had made the bold decision to stick with using Arthur’s Christian name, partly because he considered the two of them to be on good enough terms to drop the niceties, and partly because he still relished the slight surprised quirk of Arthur’s brow every time he heard it.  Ever the gentleman, though, Arthur was still calling him by his last name; something Albert endeavored to change.

“If you say so,” he muttered, and the pair settled into a comfortable silence as they rode, the worries over the night’s sleeping arrangements drifting out of Albert’s thoughts as they crossed the plains. They travelled through Twin Stack Pass and after spotting an abandoned oil derrick, Albert suggested they ride closer and stop there for a while, his eyes scanning the land for signs of wildlife. A herd of deer were grazing on the other side of the track and Albert waved at Arthur to stop. They dismounted near the foot of the cliff and Albert began collecting his camera equipment.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you in a couple of hours?” Arthur asked, fiddling with his own saddlebag. Albert glanced up, looking over his horse at Arthur.

“You’re going somewhere?”

“No but I reckon you’ll be lost in your thoughts for the next hour or so,” he said with a wry smile, one brow raised, challenging.

“Ah. Yes, well you may be right about that. I’m sorry, you needn’t have come if you’re going to be bored–”

“If I didn’t want to come I woulda said so. I know you, Mr. Mason, and I know your mind. Go off with your camera, and I’ll be here if you need me.”

Albert smiled, hefting his equipment closer as he stepped away. “If you refuse to call me Albert, I insist you at least drop the ‘mister’. I hope I’m not so respectable as that implies.”

“I’ve always found you to be very respectable, Mr. Mason.”

“Do you know I think that’s the worst thing you’ve said to me. I think I’ll be off now before you upset me further.” Arthur’s dry chuckle followed him as he hurried across the road and settled into the long grass, balancing his tripod on the uneven ground.

A deer poked its head up as the photographer rustled about, its wide eyes watching Albert but it didn’t spook, instead lowering its head and resuming its grazing. When the camera’s flash went off, _then_ it spooked. The herd shot up and scattered but Albert hummed happily as he stood up, collecting his camera and looking for more animals to hassle. While timid deer and such weren’t his usual subjects, he was grateful to be able to take a break from the stress of the tour and spend some time doing what he loved.

Albert looked over his shoulder to see what Arthur was doing, shaking his head when he saw the other man poking around the oil derrick. Happy that Arthur was entertained for now, he returned his focus to the wildlife around him, looking up when he heard the yips of some nearby coyotes. He collected his equipment and crouch-ran further across the plains after the animals, setting the tripod down and focusing the shot on a pair of young pups playing. He couldn’t help smiling softly as he watched them through the viewfinder, feeling slightly regretful when the sizzle of the flash made them jump apart in fear. They regarded him cautiously, unsure whether to bolt or remain there, and Albert slowly opened his satchel and withdrew some tendrils of cooked meat wrapped in paper packaging. He removed the paper and tossed the meat towards them, a swell of satisfaction surging through him as they drew closer in order to eat it. He glanced behind him to see if Arthur had noticed but instead felt a bolt of panic shoot through him when he couldn’t see the gunslinger anywhere.

“ _Arthur?_ ” he called, the pups taking the meat and scampering away behind him, but Albert ignored them as he quickly scooped up his equipment and headed back towards the horses.

“ _Arthur!_ ” he shouted, his voice louder than the first instance. “ _Where are you?_ ”

Albert reached the horses and dumped his camera and tripod on the ground, looking about him at the wide expanse of land and wondering where Arthur could have gone. He refused to think something had happened to the man, deciding instead to march over to where Arthur had been snooping around the oil derrick.

“Arthur!”

“ _What?_ ”

From a hole in the ground emerged Arthur’s head, a frown on his face as he clambered out of the hole, brushing dirt off of him.

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s the – _what on Earth were you doing down there?_ ” Albert asked, very aware that his voice had risen an octave and sounded shaky.

Arthur looked back down the hole, pointing. “Found a dinosaur bone.”

“You…” Albert ducked under the structure of the oil derrick until he was stood next to Arthur. He peered into the darkness, his eyes widening when he spotted the chalk white sweep of bone against the earth.

“Warn a man next time, will you?” he sighed, “I turned around and you’d vanished.”

“Sorry,” Arthur said, although he didn’t sound sorry. “Only took a moment.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

“I said I’m sorry. You can go back to your camera now, I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Not even back down that hole?”

“Nah. I’m gonna check out that body just there.”

“The _what_?”

Arthur nodded at the corpse lying a few feet away from them, and Albert wondered how he hadn’t spotted the fellow before.

“Oh my God,” he said. Arthur bent over him, rummaging through his pockets. “Arthur!”

“What? He won’t be needin’ none of it.”

“Yes but that’s still… wrong,” he said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

Arthur straightened, waving a letter he found while looking victorious. When he began unfolding it, Albert decided he’d seen enough and started walking away.

“Where you going?” Arthur called after him. “Mason!”

“Back to my camera,” he replied, continuing forward. “Like you said. I don’t want to watch you reading someone’s private correspondence.”

“It ain’t that private. Just some letter from an oil company.”

Albert turned, incredulity on his face. “That’s hardly the point, is it? You’re being… disrespectful.”

Arthur frowned. “I just thought it’s interestin’.”

“The bone is interesting. A dead man in the middle of nowhere is heart-breaking.”

“Heart-breaking,” Arthur scoffed, folding the letter away. “Men die all the time, Mr. Mason. Death’s a callous thing, and that’s just the way it is.”

“Death may be callous but that does not mean we should treat the dead callously. That man had a family.”

“He coulda been a criminal. He still deserve some care, then?”

“Yes,” Albert said vehemently. “Doesn’t your family care for you?”

Arthur blinked, surprise flashing across his face before it settled into indifference. “Go take your pictures,” he muttered, brushing past Albert and marching towards his horse. Albert sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He watched as Arthur concealed himself behind his horse, lighting a cigarette with his back to him. His gaze fell to the dead man nearby and his face contorted into a grim expression.

Albert was well aware of the unforgiving nature of the West; he’d come face to face with it far more often than he’d have liked. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to get so offended on behalf of this stranger, perhaps there was something about the way he’d been coldly left there that scared Albert, that made him wonder what would happen to him if he were to die here. What would happen to Arthur?

He was lost in thought for several minutes before deciding to head down the hill, slowing behind the gunslinger.

“I didn’t mean to get angry–” Albert started, stopping suddenly when Arthur glared at him over his shoulder and raised a finger.  

“Don’t,” he said around the cigarette, his voice turned scratchy. “It ain’t–” He cleared his throat. “Leave me alone, will ya?”

“It was just a stupid squabble, Arthur, I–”

“I know, Mason,” he muttered. “I just need a minute.”

“Alright,” Albert acquiesced softly, “I’ll be over there.” He nodded to the spot where he’d photographed the coyotes, and when Arthur grunted his affirmation, he collected his camera and walked away.

He chose to travel a little further away so that he wouldn’t be distracted wondering what Arthur was doing. He crested a hill and spotted the coyotes again, and seeing no other animals he trailed after them, his tripod bouncing along the ground.

At some point after taking a few more shots of the coyotes, Albert abandoned his camera and settled into the grass, content to just watch the creatures sit in the sun. He himself felt the warm rays on the back of his neck, and closing his eyes Albert waited for his heart to settle and his mind to stop racing.

Several minutes later there was a sharp bark and Albert opened his eyes to see the coyotes running away just as a shadow fell over him. Moments later there was a rustle and Arthur sat next him, a new cigarette in his mouth.

“You scared them off,” Albert commented.

“I do that.”

“You’re not scaring me off.”

“Not yet.”

Albert rolled his eyes, sighing to himself.

“I didn’t mean to rile you up,” Arthur added, his voice quiet. “You was right. About what you said.”

“Just forget it, Arthur. It doesn’t matter.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I seen so much death, I ain’t so shocked by it no more.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have dismissed ya like that.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Albert pressed, his tone softening. “Forget it.”

The outlaw fell silent. Smoke from the cigarette wafting over to Albert, and he wrinkled his nose.

“I know a lady who’s looking for them dinosaur bones.”

“Really? What’s she doing with them?”

Arthur shrugged, looking out over the Heartlands. “Not sure. Think she’s some kind of professor.”

“That must be interesting work.”

“I guess so. She was kinda strange. Nice, though.”

Albert laughed. “I’m sure you’ve kept stranger company. Mr. Châtenay certainly seemed an eccentric figure.”

Arthur smiled, clearly thinking about the man. “Oh, he is. I don’t know what goes through that fella’s head sometimes. I think he’s planning on leaving Saint Denis. Doesn’t like the restrictions.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Arthur’s smile widened. “Yeah, I guess we got some things in common. He’s odd but I like him.”

Albert mirrored his smile, but it felt a little forced. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said suddenly, his mouth dry.

“Mmm?”

“It’s rather funny, really. The hotel… um, the owner told me there’s only one room available.”

“That was lucky, then.”

“Yes. Well, the thing is… there’s only one bed, too.”

He couldn’t see Arthur’s eyes beneath his hat but he watched as the other man took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke, staying quiet for a while.

“It don’t matter,” he finally said.

“Really?” Albert said, his mood lifting. He hadn’t expected Arthur to agree to it.

“Nah. I’ll be fine out here.”

“You’ll… what do you mean?”

Arthur gestured around them. “I’ll set up a tent outside of town. I’ll come find you tomorrow mornin’.”

 “No, I wasn’t saying you had to sleep out here, we’d just have to share a bed.”

“It don’t bother me, Mason. I sleep in a tent all the time.”

“But wouldn’t you rather something comfier? Warmer?” he asked, knowing it was futile. Once Arthur made his mind up on something, he rarely changed it.

“The ground suits me just fine. And it’s been warm all day, I doubt it’s gonna get too cold during the night.”

“If you’re sure. It wouldn’t bother me in the slightest, though, sharing a bed.”

“I said it’s fine, Mason,” Arthur repeated. “Don’t worry about me.”

Albert sighed, ignoring the disappointment settling in his stomach. “I always worry about you.”

“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments, I hope you're enjoying it! More soon :)


	7. Valentine II

Arthur was leaning against the hitching post outside the hotel when Albert emerged the next morning. He had slept fitfully the night before, his thoughts torturing him with images of he and Arthur sharing the bed, and every time he ripped himself away from those imaginings the cold sheets surrounding him sent him frustratedly rolling over and trying to find a comfier position.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling brightly at Arthur.

“Mornin’,” he grumbled, “I mailed the location of that dinosaur bone we found yesterday to the lady I told you about. Not sure what she’s plannin’ on doing with them.”

“I imagine she’ll advance our knowledge of those prehistoric creatures,” Albert commented.

“I guess.” He shrugged. “So, back to the oil derrick?”

“Maybe not,” Albert said, thinking of yesterday’s events. “Let’s go somewhere else. Dewberry Creek should be full of wildlife this early in the morning, and the light reflecting off the water will add beauty to my photographs that I could never engineer myself.”

“If you say so,” Arthur said with a smile. “Ready to go?”

The pair of them set off, riding fast as Albert wanted to spend as much time at the creek as possible. He hoped the weather would be as pleasant as it was yesterday, and he also hoped there’d be less conflict between the two of them. Arthur was an enigma to him; he could never tell what the other man was thinking. Laying in bed the night before Albert had to remind himself that Arthur had experienced far more disturbing things than he and was more hardened as a result, and because of that they would never see eye to eye on some matters. Despite that, Albert was desperate to learn more about him.

As predicted, various creatures were dotted along the Creek. Birds flittered in and out of the dusty, dried parts of the riverbed as deer and bucks lapped at the puddles. As they dismounted Albert spotted a silver fox in the tree line and he felt a flutter of excitement at all the promising shots he’d be able to take.

He turned to tell Arthur where he was headed and was surprised to find the other man settling against a large rock, his legs stretched out.

“Comfortable?”

Arthur rolled his shoulders, squinting against the sun. “As well as I can be.”

“That’s what happens when you choose to sleep outside overnight,” Albert commented cheerfully while he unstrapped his camera from his saddle. He saw Arthur rolling his eyes and he shook his head. “Can’t complain when it’s your own fault.”

“Yes I can.”

“No,” Albert said, hoisting his camera over his shoulder. “You cannot. I’ll be over there.”

“And I shall be here.”

“Yes, and please remain there. I’d rather not find you disappearing down another hole today.”

“No promises, Mason,” he argued, nudging his hat over his eyes and leaning back.

Albert huffed and marched away, refusing to put up with Arthur’s dry humor any longer. He crested the creek and shuffled through the long grass of the woodland, seeking out the fox he had seen earlier. It took him several minutes of sitting completely still, but eventually he caught a glimpse of silver fur nearby and Albert slowly readied the camera, watching as the fox sniffed at the air, its ears pricked. Knowing the elusive nature of the creature and that it probably would not stick around much longer, Albert took the picture, happy to note the fox had remained still while the photo was taken, only darting away at the loud pop of the flash.

He set his sights on a lonely muskrat scampering across the creek and wondered if he’d be able to capture a clear image. While it wasn’t the most impressive of creatures, it was an agile little thing and Albert could count himself lucky if once the picture was developed it was cohesive.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Albert lifted his tripod above him as he slid down the lip of the creek, coming to crouch at the bottom and edging ever closer to the unaware rodent. Gazing through the viewfinder, Albert focused on centering the muskrat, listening to the wind rustling through the trees around him. He hadn’t felt so serene in a long while, and as the breeze ruffled his hair he held onto his hat, a smile tugging at his lips.

Distracted as he was, Albert hadn’t fully realized the muskrat had changed position until it was charging at him, an enraged shriek sounding as it went for his ankle. Albert yelped as he jumped away from the rodent’s deceptively sharp teeth, his boots skidding on the dirt and sending him falling backwards. He possessed enough cohesion to protect his camera with his body but that didn’t stop the lance of pain that surged through his back. The angry squeaking died down, the muskrat apparently satisfied it had scared Albert enough, and it scampered away as Albert sat up with a groan.

Brushing the dust from his shirt, Albert was distracted from his throbbing elbows by hoarse laughter behind him and he twisted to see Arthur with his head thrown back and shoulders shaking, his eyes closed as he cackled.

“Arthur!” he shouted, indignant, but Arthur only laughed louder. Albert struggled to his feet, sweeping down his trousers and fighting the blush he could feel spreading over his cheeks. “I could have broken something!”

“You certainly could have, knowing you,” he chuckled as Albert drew nearer. “I ain’t laughed that hard in a long time.”

Albert tried to look irritated but he couldn’t help feeling a burst of warmth as Arthur spoke. “Those creatures are vicious,” he muttered. “I might have lost my foot had it gotten to me.”

“Sure, sure,” Arthur said, wiping at his eyes. “You looked real courageous.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, allowing a smile. “Well. This is a good time for a break, I think.”

“Already? It’s barely been an hour.”

“Tiring work being a photographer, Arthur.” Albert stepped over to his horse and began rummaging through his saddlebag, looking for food. He found his canteen and withdrew it, grabbing a can of strawberries, too.

“It don’t look it.”

Albert settled next to Arthur, shooting him a withering look. “That’s because you are not a professional. You fail to see the intricacies of the art that require copious amounts of concentration.”

“I think if you’d used all that concentration you woulda seen that muskrat coming at you.”

“And I think you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Albert said. “Strawberry?” He held one out on the end of his fork.

“You brought cutlery?” Arthur asked, clearly fighting a smile. He accepted the fruit while Albert rolled his eyes.

“Can’t have sticky fingers on my equipment,” he defended. Arthur hummed as he began rifling through the satchel perched on the ground next to him. He pulled out his journal and flicked the pages, stopping to cast a suspicious eye in Albert’s direction.

“No reading over my shoulder,” he said. His mouth full, Albert shook his head, pointedly looking away as Arthur produced a pencil from somewhere and started sketching. He’d seen Arthur with the book before and knew how valuable it was to him, and also knowing how personal the contents must be, Albert wasn’t going to betray his trust.

They sat in silence as Arthur sketched and Albert ate his strawberries, occasionally offering one to the other man who’d take it with a distracted, “thanks.” As he chewed, Albert let his eyes wander over the grassy scenery of the Heartlands, trying not to worry if this trip would be the last time he’d see it. Once the tour was finished he’d have to return to New York, return to a financially sustainable way of life. This job was certainly going to contribute to a lot of repayments, but it wouldn’t clear the debts he’d accrued from the last time he was this far west. Sooner or later he’d need to land a job that let him earn a little more, even though he knew it wouldn’t be anything as exciting as what he was doing now.

Sitting there with Arthur next to him, Albert tried to recall the last time he’d felt so at peace. The sky was clear, birds were chirping, and he was in the company of the man he’d grown rather fond of. Never seeing New Hanover again would never be as painful as the knowledge that it was likely he was never going to see Arthur again. He knew the cowboy would never travel east, and Albert had no idea when he’d next get the opportunity to return to this place and see him once more. He’d been trying to avoid thinking on it, wanting instead to enjoy these last couple of weeks, to soak up anything Arthur would give him; his smile, his laugh, his blazing eyes, so that when the time came for Albert to leave he’d have more than a photograph to remember Arthur by.

Finishing his strawberries, Albert set the can aside and withdrew a sheaf of papers from his own satchel. He had been planning on reviewing his speech for tomorrow evening’s exhibition, to ensure he had everything memorized. He wasn’t sure when he’d be seeing Andrew Mumford next, and he had been surprised to have received no letter or telegram from him upon his arrival in Valentine. Albert knew the exhibition was to be held in a Moving Picture tent and he knew it would begin at 6pm, but other than that he had little idea of what preparations were underway. He’d decided not to get involved like he had in Annesburg, choosing instead to spend time with Arthur in his favorite place, and he was happy to note he didn’t regret it an ounce. Even if the exhibition turned out to be a ramshackle operation, as it had in Van Horn, Albert knew he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

As he continued making amendments while muttering to himself, Albert jumped when he felt a sudden pressure against his right arm, and he looked across to find Arthur leaning against him, his chin against his chest while his head rested at an angle on Albert’s shoulder as he slept.

“You stubborn fool,” Albert murmured with a smile. If Arthur had only agreed to share the hotel bed with him the night before, he would not have been tired enough to fall asleep sitting on the hard ground while his back rested against an unyielding boulder. It was lucky Albert was left-handed, else he would not have been able to continue in his work, but after several minutes of feeling the uncomfortable leather of Arthur’s hat digging into his neck, he slowly removed it to avoid it poking him if Arthur moved his head. As he placed it on the ground his eyes fell on the journal that was splayed open on the outlaw’s lap. A faint breeze had turned the pages back to an older entry and he couldn’t help noticing a crumpled piece of paper that had been smoothed out and attached to the journal. It was slightly lighter in color compared to the yellowing pages of the journal, and it was after Albert ever so slowly took the book from Arthur’s lap that he could see what the sketch was.

It was his drawing of a stag that he’d affixed to the exterior of the exhibition in Annesburg.

Albert stared at it for a long time, wondering when Arthur had returned to the warehouse to collect it. As he recalled, Albert hadn’t shown him the sketch, he’d merely mentioned it, yet Arthur had spent time scouring all the children’s drawings until he’d come across his. He wasn’t sure what to make of that knowledge, and as his mind continued to reel he glanced at the scrawled writing on the page next to it.

_Made it to Albert’s exhibition in Annesburg. We was only a few minutes late and that was thanks to John. The moping bastard took too long getting on his horse. I can hardly blame him, though, it’s been a tough time for him. We only just got Jack back, and I imagine he’s still a little wound up. I know Abigail is. We all are. I hope getting away from camp has done the others some good._

_Albert was his peculiar self as usual. He told me he’d wrangled some children into helping him draw attention to the exhibition, something I was not expecting to hear. I finally offered my company for the duration of his trip and he readily agreed. I knew he would, and yet I was still strangely nervous over asking. I think the last time I felt like that was when I was courting Mary. Perhaps this won’t end as disastrously._

Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, Albert couldn’t stop himself from flicking through the rest of the pages, stopping suddenly when he came across a sketch Arthur had drawn of their first meeting. It depicted Albert bent over his camera, and he could remember the frustration he was feeling as he waited for a coyote to arrive. Albert read the looping text that accompanied it, unable to stop his cheeks blushing as he read.

_Met a nice fella taking photos of animals – Albert Mason, I think he was called. Kind and interesting and entirely unused to real country, even though he seemed to love it._

He had no idea Arthur thought of him so fondly. He’d presumed the affection was one-sided, because as much as he knew Arthur enjoyed spending time with him he had always imagined there were more interesting people to occupy Arthur’s time, to occupy his journal. He had no need to imagine it, he knew for a fact that there were; a lady utilizing him in her search for dinosaurs and an artist dragging him into ridiculous escapades, to name but two. There had to be a multitude of curious figures he knew, yet Arthur had dedicated pages to sketching and writing of him. Albert snapped the journal shut, knowing he was pushing his luck, and placed it on Arthur’s lap before he could be tempted any further.

A sharp inhale made Albert look up, and as Arthur lifted his head he withdrew his hand from the journal, watching as Arthur frowned down at it.

“I just closed it,” Albert said softly, “The wind was flapping the pages about.” Technically not a lie.

“Oh,” Arthur muttered, his voice croaky as his fingers nudged the book closer to him. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. You coulda shoved me off.”

“That’s quite alright. It’s not been very long, anyhow.” His eyes drifted to the suddenly cloudy sky. “Though I fear you missed the last remnants of the sun.”

Arthur tucked his journal back into his satchel, “Anything interesting happen?”

“No,” Albert said, smiling at him. “It’s been rather nice just sitting here for a while. I think this speech is finally ready.” He tapped the sheets of paper with his pencil and Arthur, having woken fully, considered them.

“I’m sure you’re gonna be just fine,” he said.

“Not sure what the turn out will be like.”

“Well Valentine’s a little more central than Annesburg and Van Horn, there’s bound to be more people show up.”

“As charming as the thought is, I doubt people are coming from far away to see my exhibition,” Albert mused.

“I did.”

“You–” Albert laughed, more out of surprise than anything else. “You came to see _me_ , not my work.”

“I would’ve. If I didn’t know you, I would’ve stopped.”

“I don’t know how true that is, Arthur,” he said quietly, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Arthur frowned, his hands fiddling with his hat. “You shouldn’t worry ‘bout numbers. You’re doing important work. That’s what should matter.”

“My work is raising awareness. I got hired _because_ Mr. Mumford thought I was an influential figure, and I can’t very well be that if nobody shows up.”

Arthur was still frowning. “I’d like to meet this Mr. Mumford. He’s the organizer of your tour?”

“Yes.”

“Well as far as I can see, he ain’t all that good at organizin’. Surely it’s down to him to advertise what you’re doing? I ain’t seen anything in no newspapers or notice boards.”

“Of course he’s been advertising,” Albert argued, feeling the need to defend the man who had been so generous to him, “Why would he arrange these events – which I’m sure have cost him a fair amount to hire – and not promote any of them?”

“I’m just saying,” Arthur grumbled, “He don’t seem to be much good at it.”

“Perhaps he’s new to the charity, as I am,” Albert said, “There’s no need to be so hard on him. He’ll have goals of his own that he needs to achieve. I’m sure he’s doing his utmost to make this tour as successful as possible.”

Arthur fell quiet, still looking unconvinced. Above them, the sky darkened as gray clouds loomed. Albert looked up with a sigh.

“That’s the good weather gone, then. Won’t have much success if in my photographs the sky is overcast.”

Arthur remained silent, putting his hat on his head and looking up as well.

“Still,” Albert continued, “It’s warm enough to remain here a little while longer, what do you think?”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Got anymore strawberries?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small interlude of a chapter before things pick up a bit (yes I know, finally). It would have been longer but I felt guilty for taking a while in uploading, so you've got a shorter chapter but the next one will be uploaded soon!


	8. Valentine III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos' and comments, they really make my day.

They passed the remainder of the afternoon like that: leant against the large boulder and chatting to each other. Sometimes Arthur doodled in his journal and sometimes Albert added corrections to his speech, but even when they were silent there was warmth and comfort shared between them, revealed in the times Arthur would quietly show him a sketch and explain the story behind it, or when Albert asked his opinion on a few sentences and changed them according to what Arthur thought.

By the time evening drew close Albert’s mood had dipped at knowing their time in the Heartlands end, and as they rode towards Valentine he let his eyes rove once more over the landscape, wanting to commit everything to memory. He would have no time to return tomorrow, needing to spend the day preparing for the exhibition, and so it was with a pang of sadness that he continued onwards.

As the train station came into view Arthur slowed his horse, and with a confused frown Albert did the same.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Arthur said. He nodded to a spot under a tree. “Think I’m gonna set up camp over there.”

“Arthur,” Albert sighed. “It’s very likely going to rain tonight–”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be miserable. And you’ll probably catch a cold.”

“It’s like I said yesterday: it ain’t that cold.” He dismounted and began unstrapping his bedroll. “And I’ll be in my tent, out of the rain.”

“Arthur–”

“ _Mason,_ ” he said with emphasis, interrupting the photographer. “You can be happy in your room, and I’ll be happy out here. I much prefer it here, anyway.”

“I see,” Albert conceded with a frown. “Where will you be tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll find ya. Don’t worry.”

“I can’t help it with you,” he muttered, echoing his sentiment from yesterday, much to Arthur’s amusement. The outlaw shook his head with a smile and waved him away and Albert reluctantly spurred his horse onwards, ignoring the sense of rejection settling in his gut. Arthur could sleep wherever he liked, there was no reason to be disappointed over him not choosing to share the bed with him. There was absolutely no need to take it personally, and Albert kept repeating that to himself as he neared the hotel and dismounted to tie his horse to the hitching post. He had other things to be concerned with.

“Mr. Mason!”

He turned and saw Andrew Mumford jogging over to him, a smile on his face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

“Of course not,” Albert said, forcing a smile. He hadn’t been expecting to see the man until tomorrow and while he enjoyed Mumford’s company he wasn’t in the mood for socializing. “I was only going to be sitting in my room.” Wallowing in his misery sounded very appealing at that time.

“Can I buy you a drink? The saloon is only over there.”

He _really_ wanted to just sit in his room alone, but his mother had raised him to put other’s comfort above his own, and so he flashed another smile.

“I’d like nothing more,” he said, holding out a hand. “Lead the way.”

The pair entered the saloon and Mumford directed him to a table as he stepped up to the bar to order their drinks. He returned a few minutes after Albert had sat down, offering a glass.

“You a whiskey man, Mr. Mason?” he asked as they clinked glasses.

“When the mood strikes me, and I am certainly in the mood now.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mumford agreed. There was a brief silence as they sipped at their drinks. “I’m sorry I haven’t found you sooner,” Mumford said afterwards. “Got caught up in some business in Saint Denis. We’ve another project running, you see, and I’m responsible for that as well.”

“It’s no matter. What’s the project?”

Mumford thought for a moment, probably deciding how best to explain it to a man who didn’t specialize in conservation like Albert did. “I’ve assembled a team to help me find some elusive creatures in the hopes of bringing them to the public’s attention. We want to show off the wide array of animals in this land and I believe the rare ones will garner the most interest.”

“You’re capturing live animals?” Albert asked, taking another sip. “That sounds rather risky.” And morally dubious, he added to himself.

Mumford shook his head. “The public will be perfectly safe. And I know what you’re thinking but it’s out of my hands. I’ve only been given the orders and it’s up to me to execute them,” he said with a smile. “No questions asked.”

“You’ve a difficult boss by the sound of it.”

“I enjoy the work, as I’m sure is the same for you. How go the preparations for tomorrow, by the way?”

They settled into friendly conversation, Albert explaining some of the changes he’d made to his speech while Mumford listened attentively. When he went to take another sip of whiskey, he noted with some surprise that his glass was empty, and Mumford sat up straight.

“Allow me to buy you another one,” he said, already standing.

“No, no, no. That’s quite alright–”

“Please, I insist. I still feel terribly guilty over the Van Horn affair, and I hope to make it up to you tonight.”

Albert relaxed, a small, real, smile on his face. “Alright,” he accepted. “I appreciate it.”

Mumford was gone and back in a flash, it seemed, placing Albert’s second drink in front of him. “It appears the bartender was rather generous with that one,” he commented, and Albert looked with surprise to see the glass was half-full.

“No ice?” he asked meekly, and Mumford shook his head.

“They’re out, would you believe?”

“Out of ice? I’ll have to take it slowly, then,” Albert said with a laugh. He certainly couldn’t refuse the drink Mumford had bought him. “ _Very_ slowly.”

Mumford shared his laugh. “We’ve all night if you need it.”

They lapsed back into pleasant conversation as Albert sipped at his drink, trying not to pull a face at the strength of the alcohol. At one point he asked Mumford about his family and while the other man spoke Albert’s mind drifted to Arthur, wondering what the other man was doing at that moment. Was he already asleep? It was barely 8pm so he doubted that. Perhaps he had other matters to attend to, other more interesting people to see. Maybe last night he’d sought out someone else’s company and he’d be doing the same tonight.

Or maybe Albert needed to lay off the whiskey.

As Mumford finished telling him a story about his children, Albert stared at the bottom of his empty glass, wondering when he’d finished it.

“You really are a whiskey man,” Mumford said, amusement coloring his tone. “I’ll be only a moment.” He rose and headed over to the bar before Albert had the chance to say anything and all he could do was wait and wonder if the drink opposite him was only Mumford’s first.

“Here,” Mumford said, jolting Albert out of his musings. He accepted the new glass with a weak smile, his stomach churning at the taste.

“So, have you been enjoying the past few days here in Valentine?”

“Mmm,” Albert said, forcing the alcohol down his throat. “Been seein’ an ol’ friend. Old friend,” he repeated, frowning at his slurred voice.

“Is that so? Well that must have been a nice surprise.”

Albert shook his head, holding up a finger as he drank again. “No surprise,” he said, “We planned it. He’s coming with me… to each town.”

Mumford smiled, swirling the contents of his glass. “What a marvelous idea. It must be some relief having a familiar face alongside you.”

“Mmm…” he hummed again. “Arthur’s an idiot.”

“Arthur… Morgan? The man in your photograph?” Albert nodded. “Why’s he an idiot?”

“Because he’s sleepin’ outside!” he exclaimed, slumping back in his chair. “Sleepin’ under some idiot tree near the station instead of…” He trailed off to down the remainder of his whiskey, grimacing as it burned his throat on the way down.

Mumford was watching him closely, and a distant part of Albert’s mind wondered if he’d revealed too much, but after a seemingly long second the other man smiled.

“I see,” he said. “Sounds like he has made a mistake in sleeping alone.”

“I doubt he thinks so,” Albert muttered, his glass clattering against the table as he dropped it.

“I’m sure he’ll come to realize it. I think, Mr. Mason, it might be best if I take you to your hotel room now. You appear to be drooping.”

“I’m doin’ no such thing,” Albert slurred, despite being fully aware he was listing to the side. He just hadn’t figured out how to right himself.

Mumford got up, leaning over Albert and offering a hand, “Come on,” he said, helping Albert to his feet. “It’s best you get a good night’s sleep. I can’t imagine tomorrow morning is going to be very pleasant for you.”

“I don’ care,” he mumbled.

“You will when you’re giving a presentation with an almighty headache.”

Albert huffed a laugh and together they exited the saloon and into the rain-soaked mud of the street. It wasn’t raining too heavily, and the pair slowly made their way towards the hotel, Albert holding onto Mumford’s arm to remain upright whilst trying to ignore the water upon his face and on his clothes. A small, sinister part of him was glad for the turn in the weather, hoping that Arthur was becoming equally soggy. 

Mumford left him at the entrance to the hotel with a promise to see him tomorrow before the exhibition began, and so Albert was left with the momentous task of getting up the stairs. The owner was sat behind his desk, a different newspaper covering half of his face as he watched him with a raised brow, and Albert gave him a friendly wave as he clutched the banister and pulled himself upstairs. Soon enough he was in his room, and Albert staggered over to his bed and collapsed face down upon it, his arms and legs spread. He couldn’t help noting the large expanse of sheets that surrounded him, and he groaned lowly into his pillow, rolling over with a huff and throwing his hat into the corner of the room.

At some point he got bored of staring up at the ceiling, and Albert closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep, knowing Mumford was right in that he needed a decent night’s sleep in order to be relatively presentable tomorrow. At least in this state, tipsy-bordering-on-drunk, he wasn’t worrying over the exhibition. Instead, his mind was blessedly blank, and with his eyes closed Albert drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

At least he would have, if it wasn’t for the rain.

It was clattering loudly against the window, having gotten substantially heavier since he’d left the saloon with Mumford, and Albert sighed as he opened his eyes, fully awake and not in the least bit drowsy. He felt sorry for any soul out in that weather, knowing they would be quickly soaked to the bone.

He wondered if Arthur was getting soaked. He certainly wouldn’t be getting any sleep.

“For pity’s sake,” he muttered, his foggy mind clearing slightly as he got up from the bed and staggered out the door, clattering down the stairs and ignoring the owner’s glare as he emerged into the street, huddling into himself from the cold rain as he jogged down the road, ignoring his horse’s nickers from behind him.

While he was cursing himself for not grabbing a coat on his way out, Albert spotted a cluster of five men outside the train station, huddled under the awning as they talked quietly. As he neared them, Albert spotted a familiar bowler hat amongst the black coats.

“Mr. Mumford?” He was ignored, and so he raised his voice, “Mr. Mumford!”

Mumford spun and spotted Albert with a confused gaze, offering a bemused smile when he recognized the photographer.

“Up already?” he called as he got closer. “I’d have thought you’d be in a deep sleep by now.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Albert said, doing his best not to slur his words, “Wanted to try an’ clear my head.”

Mumford nodded, although he still looked concerned. “In the rain? Where are you headed?”

“Off to see my idiot of a friend,” he said, walking briskly past them and trying not to stumble. “Who are your friends?”

Mumford smiled. “My team from the other project I was telling you about.” The men watched Albert with blank expressions, and he offered them a friendly smile but received nothing in return. “They’ve only just arrived.”

“By train?” Albert stopped and glanced up and down the tracks, half expecting to see the long carriages.

“It’s already gone,” Mumford said with a tight smile, casting an eye at the sky. “I doubt you’d have heard it.”

Because he was borderline drunk. Of course. Fighting a blush, Albert nodded.

“I shan’t keep you,” he called. “I’m sure we all want to get out of this rain.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Mason.” He waved and Albert continued down the road, breaking into a run as his need to escape the rain prevailed over his desire to appear sober. Eventually he spotted the tree Arthur had pointed out earlier, and he sighed in relief when he spotted a tent erected underneath it, getting pelted by the rain despite the partial cover.

“Arthur Morgan, get out here at once!” he shouted, staggering over to the tent and ripping open one of the flaps. Arthur shot up like a bolt, grabbing Albert’s arm out of instinct before realizing it was him.

“ _Mason_?” he asked, squinting at the other man. “What–? You stink, what the hell have you been doing?”

“Come on,” Albert said, tugging at Arthur’s wrist, although it did nothing to move him. “You’re bein’ ridic’lous.”

“Are you _drunk_?”

“I saw Mr. Mumford. Come _on_.”

“And he got you drunk?”

“No no no, we were drinkin’ together. I’m getting soaked, Arthur, get up.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you explain why you decided to come and bother me after spending the evening _gettin’ drunk_.”

“Arthur. _Arthur._ It’s raining.” Albert crowded into the small tent, Arthur shuffling away to let the photographer in.

“I know it’s rainin’, I can hear it.”

“Yes! So could I!”

Arthur blinked, a frown etched on his face. “Alright…” he sighed. “I’m real glad you shared this with me, but–”

“But you’re being ridic’lous. Like I said. Come back with me.”

“Mason, you ain’t making a lot of sense right now. Maybe you should go back–”

“Arthur. Ar-thur. I told Mumford you’re an idiot.”

“Oh good.”

“And it’s because you refuse to share the hotel room with me! I don’t understand why you’d rather–” 

“You told Mr. Mumford that?”

“I think so.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know, he said something about making a mistake.”

“Jesus, Mason.”

“And you are! What sane man wants to sleep out here in the rain when–”

“Alright, _alright_. Christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “If I go with you, will you shut up?”

“If you really want me to. Come on.” He grabbed Arthur’s hand and pulled him out of the tent, the outlaw snatching his satchel on his way out. He whistled for his horse and it followed them as they made their way back towards the hotel.

“They were there,” Albert said suddenly, pointing with his free hand at the train station.

“Who?”

“Not sure where they’ve gotten to now, though. Back on the train maybe? Did you see one?”

“A train? No. When?”

“Didn’t hear it over the rain perhaps. I didn’t hear it over the whiskey.”

“Over the–” Arthur broke into a short laugh, and Albert’s eyes lit up as he swiftly joined in the laughter even though he wasn’t sure what Arthur found amusing.

“Never a dull moment with you, Albert,” Arthur mused as they neared the hotel. At the use of his first name Albert stumbled as his mouth dropped open.

“You–!”

“Yes, and you ain’t gonna remember it,” Arthur said with a smile, tugging him closer to steady Albert. They bumped shoulders and Albert felt Arthur’s hand slide up to his elbow, keeping him close.

“You know what I will remember?” Albert asked, a bright smile on his face. “ _Kind and interesting_.”

Arthur shot him an uncomprehending look. “What? Who is?”

“I am. According to you.”

“I said that?” he asked with a small laugh. “Was _I_ drunk?”

“Maybe. That’d make sense, actually.”

Arthur shook his head, squeezing Albert’s elbow. “Well even if I was it weren’t no lie,” he said quietly. “You’re… the kindest man I know.”

Albert stopped outside the hotel, his boots sinking into the muddy street.

“Arthur,” he murmured, his voice wavering.

“No, no, no, don’t tell me you get all weepy when you’re drunk,” Arthur said, returning to his side and guiding him up the steps. As they entered the hotel and headed to the stairs Albert caught the eye of the owner, and when the stranger cocked a brow and winked at him he blushed furiously, his heart suddenly thudding against his ribcage. He mumbled the room number once upstairs and Arthur helped him over to the bed.

“I’m drunk,” he announced, his voice wavering.

“I know you are,” Arthur said with a chuckle as he found Albert’s hat in the corner and placed it on the nearby table along with his own.

“I’m not going to remember tonight.”

Arthur knelt in front of him, unlacing his boots. “I’m inclined to agree with you there.”

“I want… to sleep.”

Arthur frowned up at him. “I need to take your shirt off first,” he said.

“M’tired, Arthur, I just want to sleep.”

“Yeah, you said. Just give me a minute, will ya?”

Albert hurriedly shook his boots off his feet and scrambled backwards to the pillows, tucking his legs under the blanket.

“I want to remember… Arthur, just let me sleep, please.”

Arthur slowly rose from his position on the floor, smiling softly. “I think you’ve misread things a little, Albert, it’s alright. Why don’t you take your shirt off so you don’t get it all creased while I put my satchel over here?”

“Yes,” Albert murmured. “Yes, I can do that.” His fingers stumbled over the buttons but soon enough he was down to his undershirt and shimmying down the bed until he was laying down under the covers, finally beginning to feel drowsy. He watched as Arthur approached the other side, lifting the blanket slightly.

“Mind if I get in?”

“No,” he mumbled, his eyes half closed. He felt the bed dip and while the warmth from Arthur’s body tried to lure him closer he remained where he was.

“I overthought things again, didn’t I?” he said softly, and Arthur huffed a laugh.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“I’m sorry.”

“S’alright.”

“Alcohol. Doesn’t mix well with my mind.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“I’m sorry… if I embarrassed you.”

“Albert,” He felt Arthur’s hand intertwine with his, squeezing his fingers. “S’okay. Go to sleep.”

“You didn’t actually have to come with me,” he whispered, but Arthur shushed him, his voice also quieting.

“I wanted to, alright? I always wanted to. I just didn’t want you feelin’ uncomfortable.”

“I have never felt so comfortable in all my life.”

Arthur laughed again, his fingers tightening around Albert’s as the photographer slipped into sleep. “It’s real nice.”


	9. Valentine IV

An almighty headache, Mumford had predicted, and an almighty headache was indeed what assaulted Albert as he cracked one eye open. He was vaguely aware that he was sprawled across the bed, one side of his face flattened against a pillow while sunlight flickered against the other side. His thoughts were hazy, his mind muddled as he tried to recall the night before.

“Mornin’,” said a husky voice from behind him.

Albert groaned into the pillow.

“Thought you might say that. Here.” There was a quiet thud as something was put on the bedside table, and Albert slowly lifted his head to see a glass of water sitting there. He’d never been so elated to see water in his life.

“Arthur,” he croaked, still staring blearily at the glass.

“Mmm?”

“Just… put me out of my misery,” He dropped his head back onto this pillow, closing his eyes against the intruding sunlight. “Get your revolver, would you?”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur said from somewhere in the room, a trace of amusement in his voice. “We all gotta suffer through our mistakes.”

“I’m going to perish anyway. May as well make it quick.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“ _Don’t be so melodramatic_ ,” Albert muttered as he lifted himself on his arms to reach for the glass. Taking a grateful sip, he finally spotted Arthur sitting in the corner of the room, watching him with his arms crossed and his brows raised.

“Sorry,” he added, pausing to take another gulp, relishing the fresh water that soothed his parched throat.

Arthur shrugged, continuing to watch him with a perceptive eye. “Sounded like you had quite a night.”

Albert frowned, trying desperately to remember what he had been doing. “How terrible did I act?” he asked, setting the glass down.

“I never seen you so crazy.”

“Oh, God.” He pressed his face to the pillow again, hoping to hide the blush he could feel spreading across his cheeks.

“Mason,” Arthur called, a quiet chuckle accompanying it. “You need to learn when I’m teasin’ ya.”

Albert sighed, his eyes remaining closed as subtle dregs of tiredness encircled his mind. “How could you tease me when I’m suffering so?”

“Like I said: ya have to suffer through the consequences.”

He sighed again and cracked one eye open to peer at Arthur. “Well if I acted a fool towards you, I apologize,” he murmured. “I think I’m going to rest for a few more minutes.”

* * *

 

When Albert next opened his eyes his headache had lessened to a persistent throb; still painful but marginally more manageable. He’d rolled over at some point and he found himself blinking heavily at the cream-colored ceiling. Albert knew he had seen Mumford the night before, but now more snippets were coming back to him. He could vaguely recall walking through the rain and finding Arthur in his tent, but anything after that was coming up blank.

There was a quiet rustle from nearby and Albert turned his head towards it, surprised to see that Arthur had moved his chair closer to the bed. One leg was crossed at an angle over the other and he was writing in his journal, a rare expression of peace on his face. The lines that often creased his forehead were less pronounced, and his posture was relaxed in a way Albert had hardly been allowed to witness. He was still a little unsure as to why Arthur wanted to accompany him as he traveled around the country, but he dared not question it out loud, lest Arthur came to his senses and left.

“Wha’s time?” he mumbled, and Arthur looked up from his journal, a wry smile on his face.

“Afternoon,” he answered, sounding horribly smug. “Your exhibition’s in two hours.”

Albert yelped and jerked upright, toppling out of the bed.

* * *

 

“More water?” Arthur asked, appearing next to him at the back of the moving picture tent, offering a canteen.

“Shh,” Albert hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose as a jab of pain burst through his head.

“I ain’t tryna worry you, Mason, but it’s getting’ real busy in there.”

Albert dropped his hand, his face paling as he looked across at the cowboy. “Are you teasing me?”

“Not this time,” he said, smiling slightly, his eyes focused on the sleepy livestock town. Albert darted along the side of the tent and looked around the corner, his heart hammering at the long queue of people waiting to buy a ticket.

“Why is it busy?” Albert whispered to himself. “I thought – it should be empty, we’re in _Valentine_.”

“Annesburg weren’t empty, and that place is pretty remote.” Arthur said from behind him, making Albert jump. He straightened and turned to the cowboy.

“But Valentine is…” Albert pulled a face and gestured around him, hoping to articulate what he couldn’t put into words.

“I thought you like it here.”

“I do. I just didn’t think anyone else did.”

“Well this exhibition is somethin’ new and excitin’. S’bound to attract locals.”

“I can hardly think straight; I can’t address an audience that large.”

“What, were you hoping no one’d turn up? Just ‘cos you drank too much last night?”

“I don’t even remember why I made such a wretched decision,” he muttered, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

“From what you were prattlin’ on about, I think your Mr. Mumford had somethin’ to do with it.”

“Gosh, he must have been in as bad a state as me. I imagine he’s suffering just as much today.”

* * *

 

“Mr. Mason! What a show!”

As the terrifyingly large crowd filtered out of the exit, Albert was distracted from searching for Arthur by Mumford’s arrival, the familiar bowler hat winding through the people to reach him. Albert smiled faintly as they shook hands, dismayed to see that Mumford had recovered just fine from the night before.

“Thank you, Mr. Mumford,” he said, “It was a nice change having so many people here. Rather terrifying, too,” he added with a laugh.

“Ah,” Mumford said, withdrawing a newspaper from inside his black coat. “That was because of this, I believe.” He offered the newspaper and Albert took it with a frown. It had been folded onto a specific page, and Albert’s eyes widened as he read the headline.

 

_PHOTOGRAPHER BECOMES SPOKESMAN FOR BEASTS_

_Residents of Annesburg were invited yesterday evening to attend a talk by New York photographer Albert Mason. Mr. Mason has been on a crusade against local hunters and farmers who protect our communities from vicious animals whose only instincts are to kill everything their eyes land on._

 

“Oh no,” Albert said, his heart sinking.

 

_That, at least, is what this reporter has heard from seve_ _ral institutions that support hunters and farmers, and as it is my job to expose those who aim to threaten our livelihoods, I caught the next train to Annesburg to see this so-called activist for myself._

_What I found was a man devoted to preserving the natural beauty of this country, and that includes the wildlife that inhabits it. Utilizing his talent as a photographer, Mr. Mason includes prints of the wild creatures in his exhibition, allowing the public to see for themselves the beauty of them. I am sure many readers will have only ever come face to face with a bear or a wolf when it is being used as a rug, and I too am one of you. Any other exposure will have been presented in the form of some outlandish story from our rival newspapers that aims to scare its audience and spread fear in the hopes of selling more papers. There is no doubt these creatures are dangerous, but as Mr. Mason so eloquently said, “They are still a part of God’s Earth, and we do not possess the right to control what lives and what dies in this land.”_

_I urge everyone to attend one of Mr. Mason’s exhibitions so that they might learn a little more about these animals and what we can do to ensure their survival. He travels to Valentine in four days’ time, and on the 2 nd he shall be in Strawberry, followed by Rhodes on the 8th. It is high time someone fought for the magnificent creatures we share this land with, and Mr. Mason has most certainly proved his capability as being that someone._

 

“Oh my,” Albert said faintly. “This is…”

“Very generous, don’t you think?” Mumford said, his eyes gleaming.

“Um, yes, _very_ generous. Did you know this reporter was attending?”

“I had no idea,” he replied ruefully, shaking his head. “I would have asked for a less aggressive opening to the article if I had.”

Albert let out a relieved laugh, thinking the same thing. “Could have softened the headline, at least,” he added.

“Nonetheless, I do believe this article has stirred a large interest in our project. I expect Strawberry to be even more popular.”

“Good Lord,” he uttered, still staring at the newspaper.

“Keep it,” Mumford said. He cleared his throat, his gaze turning serious. “I trust you’ve recovered from last night, sir? You seemed well enough on stage.”

“Perhaps I should change my profession to actor, then, for I certainly don’t feel well.”

Mumford offered a sympathetic glance. “It _may_ have been a mistake on my part to ply you with drinks the night before this exhibition. I doubt my employer would be best pleased to learn of it.”

Albert waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not as though you were deliberately getting me drunk. You can blame my weak constitution for that.”

“Nonetheless, I think it best we leave the drinks until _after_ the next exhibition. Your room in Strawberry will be available from tomorrow, by the way. I take it you’ll be travelling straight there?”

“Yes,” Albert said. “Though I imagine I won’t make it to the hotel until the evening. I shall be taking advantage of the mountainous land in the hopes of capturing the picture of a boar or two. Or perhaps some rams.”

“Or a cougar? I believe they’re native to the north.”

“Mm, I think I’ll try to stay away from the cougars, knowing my luck.”

Mumford smiled. “Well let me recommend Lake Owanjila. You’ll find all manner of creatures there, especially at dusk.”

“Lake Owanjila,” Albert repeated, nodding slightly. “I’ll certainly pay it a visit, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Mumford said. “I presume your friend – Mr. Morgan, was it? – will be accompanying you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well then at least you’ll have him to keep an eye out for any predators. It can be frightfully dangerous at night, so do be careful.”

“I shall, Mr. Mumford, don’t you worry. I’ll see you in Strawberry.”


	10. Strawberry

“Why couldn’t we have done this earlier in the day?”

“Mr. Mumford said evening’s when the wildlife comes to… well,  _life_.”

Albert heard Arthur grumble something under his breath and he rolled his eyes. They’d left their luggage at the hotel and promptly left for the lake at Albert’s insistence, though their horses were walking at a leisurely pace. He would have felt guilty pushing them into a gallop when they’d spent most of the day crossing the West in the hot sun. Albert was grateful for the cooler temperature now that they were further north; he hated seeing how matted his hair was each time he took his hat off, and it was certainly a relief not to have his shirt sticking to his back.

Arthur, too, seemed happier now that they were out of Valentine. Since waking yesterday morning Albert had noticed a sullen aura about the man. As they’d watched people filter into the tent before the exhibition, he had worn a frown as his eyes darted from one face to another, and their dinner in the saloon had been spent in silence, interrupted only once when Arthur asked,

“You really don’t remember anythin’ from last night, then?”

Albert stopped chewing his food and shot Arthur a worried look. He swallowed and muttered, “’Fraid not. I can recall bumping into Mr. Mumford and accepting his offer to buy me a drink, but after that…” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what came over me, what possessed me to drink so much. I really am sorry for bothering you, Arthur. It can’t have been fun, dealing with me.”

“It weren’t nothin’, Mason,” Arthur said. “It’s probably best you don’t remember, anyway.”

“What?” he asked sharply, “Whatever do you mean by that?”

Arthur ignored him, jabbing his food with his fork.

“Arthur?”

“Forget it. I mean it; it weren’t nothin’. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

And so that evening Albert had stayed silent as Arthur left to set up camp on the town’s outskirts. Not knowing what had occurred the night before had left him feeling uneasy throughout the day, but Arthur’s not-so-subtle probing made him certain he’d somehow tainted the comfortable friendship between the two of them. Arthur didn’t offend easily, but his grouchy mood and shrewd questioning more or less confirmed to Albert that he’d definitely made some stupid comment about the other man’s life. His natural curiosity always amplified after a couple of drinks, and so he just  _knew_  he would have asked Arthur about his life as an outlaw. He was simply grateful that Arthur was still talking and willing to travel with him. Albert would have to think of a way to make it up to him.

Setting off for Strawberry had, for whatever reason, lifted Arthur’s spirits though, and Albert smiled each time he told a story about someone or something related to the areas they were riding through. He couldn’t help wondering if Arthur ever told anyone else these stories, and if he was one of them. Unlikely, he thought. There wasn’t anything very interesting about him.

* * *

 

Some time after the sun had set, they came upon Lake Owanjila and Albert couldn’t stop staring at the moonlight reflecting in the still water. They edged the horses closer and dismounted, and Albert’s boots sunk into the shingle as he neared the water’s edge.

“Forgive me if this is a stupid question,” Arthur began, his voice breaking the peaceful silence as he trudged closer. “But how are you gonna take pictures at night?”

“Oh, I’m not going to,” he answered. “I have some professional colleagues who I know can take glorious photographs with no daylight, but I doubt mine will appear the same. I’m just… performing reconnaissance, if you will. Seeing what’s here.” He shot Arthur a smile, who nodded.

“Doubt you’ll be able to see much.”

“Arthur the moon is giving us plenty of light. I can see  _you_. I’m sure even if I was on the other side of the lake, I’d be able to see that hat of yours.”

“Very funny. Why don’t I stay here, then, while you head over there?”

Albert pulled a face, his eyes scanning the black forest as his mind conjured up all sorts of dangers that lurked within.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he answered. “If we just sit here something shall come along, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think that’ll happen, no.”

“What? Why?”

“’Cos you won’t be able to sit quietly long enough.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Albert said, spinning to see the cowboy smiling at the ground. “I’m a photographer. I know how to keep quiet.”

“It’d be nice to see that put to use.”

Albert huffed, momentarily forgetting his desire to observe the wildlife. “I can’t do that very well when you’re here pestering me, can I?”

“A professional would be able to ignore any distractions.”

“You’re not a distraction, Arthur. You’re a headache.”

“And you’d know all about those, huh?”

Albert suppressed a smile as he turned to crouch at the lake’s edge, the water gently lapping at his feet. Arthur’s sudden playful mood was a welcome respite from the nervous energy that had taken root inside him over the past two days, and he was willing to give as good as he got.

“Oh! Arthur look at this!” he exclaimed, pointing at the water. “Quickly!”

He heard Arthur hurry over to the shore, and he crouched next to him and squinted. “What? What am I lookin’ at?”

“This.” Albert swiped his hand through the water and splashed Arthur in the face, the cowboy falling backwards as he sputtered and coughed.

“Mason!” he roared, lunging forward with his arm raised. Albert scrabbled out of the way just in time to dodge a surge of water and he laughed as he got to his feet and staggered backwards. He continued laughing once Arthur had stood up too and looked down at his drenched self, his dripping arms held out. He glanced up at Albert, one brow raised.

“Come here,” he ordered, beginning to stride forward. Albert started walking back, shaking his head.

“Oh no. No no no. Don’t come anywhere near me.” He was trying to affect a serious tone, but the sight of Arthur, wet yet grinning, prompted his own smile to spread across his face.

“C’mon, Mason, just a quick squeeze.”

“Arthur,” he chuckled, beginning to awkwardly jog backwards as Arthur sped up. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh so it’s alright for you to soak me, but not the other way around?”

“Quite right, yes.”

Arthur stopped, thinking for a moment. “Nah, I don’t think so.” He broke into sudden sprint, a look of determination on his face, and Albert stumbled away, desperately trying to speed up.

“No!” he yelled. “Stay back!” The pair ran alongside the lake, laughing as their boots crunched through the shingle and splashed through the water whenever it edged near them, but neither paid it any heed. Soon Albert abandoned the lake and he headed into the forest, laughing breathily at the sound of Arthur’s short grunts behind him. He leapt over fallen logs and dodged under branches, his smile widening at each of Arthur’s curses, and for once he was grateful for his nimble frame. Albert continued onwards, sidestepping rocks and darting around trees, until he began to get out of breath and slowed down, willing to accept defeat.

Except Arthur’s soggy hands never found him. Albert looked behind him but there was no sign of the cowboy. He hadn’t realized he’d been getting so far away from the man; he hadn’t actually wanted to properly evade him, after all. Not when it was dark and… spooky.

“Arthur?” he called, his eyes drifting from tree to tree, trying to detect any shadowy figures.

“I know you’re hiding,” he said, hoping his voice carried more bravado than he actually possessed. “You shan’t sneak up on me.”

He waited a few moments, straining his ears for any sound that might betray Arthur’s position. Nothing happened.

Perhaps Arthur had gotten lost. Albert frowned and started walking back the way he came, hoping Arthur would have done the same if he  _were_ lost. He called for him twice more, but each time he received no response, and so he carried on, ignoring the heavy thudding of his heart. Each loud cawing from a crow, each snapping of a twig nearby set Albert’s head spinning in that direction, his body freezing momentarily until he forced himself to stop being a coward and keep walking.

 _Why_ had he listened to Mumford’s suggestion of travelling at night? What a stupid idea! There were all sorts of creatures in the forest, not many of them friendly. Wolves, bears,  _cougars_ … Arthur could have been ambushed by some predator and Albert was none the wiser.

His pace quickened in worry, and as he crested a small mound Albert stopped when he saw a yellow, glowing orb in the distance. He recognized it as lamplight and as he breathed a sigh of relief and headed towards it he wondered at what point Arthur had gone back to the horses to fetch his lamp. How quickly had they gotten separated?

As he came closer Albert could see Arthur’s dark outline walking slowly along the track, his body concealing the lamplight somewhat. He took a breath to call to him, when suddenly a hand clamped around his mouth and an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him backwards.

He yelled, his voice muffled as he was dragged behind a tree and pressed against the trunk, and Albert’s chest heaved, struggling to breathe.

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright.”

Albert stared, his eyes adjusting to the dark as Arthur’s worried face came into view, his brows pulled down as he looked around the tree. He dropped his hand, and Albert licked his dry lips.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Shh.” Arthur gripped Albert’s shoulder and pointed, and Albert followed his finger, watching as a second orb bobbed around the corner and joined the man who Albert had initially presumed was Arthur. The two strangers conferred for a moment before continuing away from where Albert and Arthur were hiding.

“Who are they?” Albert whispered, and Arthur shot him a wary glance.

“Ain’t sure. I heard them say your name.” A spike of fear shot down Albert’s spine. “Don’t know why they’re here.”

“Oh, I can answer that,” a new voice to Albert’s left spoke, and the pair twisted their heads towards it.

Andrew Mumford stood in the dark, his clasped, gloved hands and crooked smile illuminated by three lamps held by men in dark coats. The same men Albert had seen at the train station in Valentine.

“We’re here for you, Arthur.”

Albert’s heart stopped as the hand on his shoulder tightened and Arthur growled, “ _Milton_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun duuun
> 
> You guys have no idea how hard it was to keep that secret, how often I accidentally typed 'Milton' instead of 'Mumford'
> 
> Thanks again for reading and leaving kudos and lovely comments! More soon!


	11. Strawberry II

He’d led the Pinkertons straight to Arthur.

“Step away from him, if you will Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur glared at Milton, his jaw clenched. Slowly he let go of Albert’s shoulder and raised his hands, taking one step backwards.

Albert knew who Milton was. Arthur had spoken of the Pinkerton Agent determined to track him and his gang down. He remembered the worried frown that creased his forehead as he talked, concern for his family bleeding into his tone.

“I never considered,” Milton said, snapping Albert from his thoughts, “how difficult catching you would be. Hands behind your back.” He stepped over dead leaves and twigs towards them, stopping behind Arthur. Someone had passed him some rope, and he roughly held Arthur’s hands together as he tied them. Milton’s cold eyes rested where Albert was still frozen against the tree. “And I had no idea _you_ would be such an infuriating factor in that.”

“Leave him alone–” Arthur was cut off by Milton swiftly spinning and striking him across the face, his head snapping to the side. He looked back at Milton and spat a wad of blood on the ground at his feet, and Albert frowned at the sight of his split lip. He must have made a noise, because Milton turned back to him, gesturing to one of his men to stand with Arthur with a curt, “Search him.”

“Hands,” he snapped, and Albert complied, holding his hands behind his back and letting Milton wrap the rope around his wrists. He pulled it tight and Albert hissed as the rope chafed against his skin. He was patted down and then Milton was grabbing his shoulder and prompting him down the slope.

“Come on.” Albert could hear boots rustling through leaves behind him, as well as a short grunt, and he hoped the agents wouldn’t bother Arthur too much. They began walking along the edge of the track, Albert and Milton in front with the rest following, and Albert wondered where their horses had gotten to. They weren’t too far from Strawberry; hopefully someone would come across them in the morning.

“It’ll be the penitentiary for you,” Milton uttered into his ear. “They lock your kind away for up to fifteen years nowadays.”

“My kind?” Albert whispered with a frown, trying to understand.

“ _Sodomites_ ,” he hissed, wrenching Albert’s arms a little and making his breath hitch. “I remember what you said. I remember everything.”

What he _said_? What on earth had he said? He’d not spoken to anyone about his… _preferences_ , yet he’d seemingly told Milton of them? He felt as though his blood had turned to ice as a thrum of fear sent his heart hammering against his ribcage. It must have been when he was drunk. He had always been talkative once a few drinks had been consumed, and now he was going to pay dearly for his misstep.

“I’d have the same done to Morgan… but seeing him hang will be so much more satisfying.”

Albert stayed silent at the man’s quiet chuckle, stumbling along the dirt track and trying not to react to the feeling of Milton’s slim hands on him.

“We’re just up here,” Milton said in a raised voice, and what Albert hated the most about this whole encounter was Milton’s blasé attitude, his seemingly friendly tone, as if this was a casual gathering of friends. Albert had never been so terrified in all his life, and here was this man acting like he was enjoying himself. Albert supposed some dark, morbid part of Milton _was_ enjoying himself.

The six of them crossed the road and crested the bank, and soon Albert could see a small camp lit by a dwindling fire.

“Got a bit of time to wait, you see,” Milton continued, pushing Albert forward. “Won’t be long until the wagon turns up. Sit.” He pushed down on Albert’s shoulders until he got the message, and the photographer sat with his back against a tree, watching as Arthur was made to sit against a different one nearby. Arthur looked at him and raised his brows in silent question, and Albert sent a small smile in response, hoping it conveyed more assurance than he currently felt.

“How’d you find me?” Arthur asked, his eyes dark as he watched Milton stand in front of them.

“Wasn’t easy,” he said. “Seemed like we were always two steps behind you. I’d get reports of sightings and by the time we arrived you were long gone.” Milton removed his jacket as he spoke, shaking it out and handing it to one of his men, who took it silently.

“I sent my men out to all the nearby towns with orders to observe you if you ever appeared. And then a few months ago you appeared near Emerald Ranch. With a photographer, of all people.” Milton’s gaze landed on Albert and he smirked. He unbuttoned his collar and began to roll up one of his sleeves.

“I thought nothing of it. I knew I wouldn’t catch up to you and so I filed the observation away as something merely curious. But then you were seen in Lemoyne, with the same photographer.”

Albert could feel himself reddening, guilt gnawing at his bones as Milton confirmed he was the reason they’d found Arthur. He glanced across at the outlaw, hoping to convey his sorrow, but Arthur was still staring at Milton, his expression stony.

“I turned my attention to you, Mr. Mason. I considered how useful you might be in helping me apprehend Morgan, and as I was looking into you I was sent _another_ report that spotted the two of you together in New Hanover. I knew then that I was onto something.” He turned his attention to his other sleeve, folding it back.

“I was granted permission to go undercover and so I contacted Gustave Laurent, the owner of the Saint Denis Gallery. I asked him to write to you and invite you to his exhibition. It took a little persuasion to get him to agree to display your work, but after some… _financial_ coaxing, he relented.”

Albert’s mouth went dry. He knew now really wasn’t the time for reflection, but the knowledge that he’d been invited to the Saint Denis Gallery as part of a _ruse_ left him feeling hollow inside. Monsieur Laurent had seemed so genuine, so pleased to have him there. He should have known it wasn’t real. He should have been smarter.

“You son of a bitch,” Arthur muttered, drawing Milton’s attention to him. The agent huffed a laugh, stepping closer. Without warning he drew back his fist and struck Arthur, the outlaw jerking sideways, unable to catch himself with his arms restrained. Milton gripped his jacket and hauled him upright, taking no time to hit him again and again and again.

“Stop! Please!” Albert begged, suddenly breathless at the sight of Arthur bloodied and groaning. Milton had his hand in his hair, forcing his head back, but when Albert spoke he let go, moving back and wiping his hands on his pants.

“I have had enough,” Milton uttered, his gaze sliding to Albert, “of your interfering.” He took one step closer and backhanded him, and Albert hissed at the stinging in his cheek. Milton crouched in front of him, reaching out and fixing the photographer’s vest. Albert forced himself to sit still and not flinch away.

“In exploiting your usefulness, I never once thought you would be so effective at disrupting my plans.”

“Wait–” Arthur’s raspy voice was cut off by a gurgling cough, and he spat out some blood before frowning at Milton. “You were Mumford.”

“You’ve only just figured that out?” Milton asked, his voice raised and colored with amusement. He looked at Albert and raised a brow, wearing look of distaste.

“It’s why nobody showed up to the Van Horn exhibition,” Albert said quietly, understanding now the extent of Milton’s strategy.

“Yes. I wasn’t going to go out and advertise it,” the agent said in a bored tone. “The less people there were, the better.”

“You were hoping Arthur would come.”

“That’s right. I didn’t particularly want you caught up in his arrest, and so I had been hoping to tail Morgan once the two of you parted ways. But you left early and you refused to come back, and so I lost that opportunity. My men and I remained at that exhibition and planned what to do next.”

Arthur began to laugh, a wheezing, scratchy sound, and Milton shot him a bemused look, but Albert already knew why he was laughing.

“He came,” he said. “You should have had someone watching my room. You missed him.”

“Walked straight past ya,” Arthur rasped. “Idiots.”

Milton’s gaze flickered upwards above Arthur, and Albert had no time to shout a warning as one of the agents appeared and kicked Arthur in the stomach. He groaned and curled forwards, his head bowed.

“You can’t do this,” Albert said, his voice beseeching. “You’re a lawman.”

“I think you’ll find that I can and if you don’t want to get on my nerves any more you would do well to remember that.” He cleared his throat and continued talking, “Annesburg was the next stop, and there I had one of my men dress in plain clothes and bump into you on the sidewalk–”

“I got a friend who reads penny dreadfuls,” Arthur spoke up, his voice obnoxiously loud. “You a fan of penny dreadfuls, Milton?”

“Not especially,” he answered, his voice tight as he waited for the outlaw to make himself clear. “I find them largely inaccurate and trashy.”

“Arthur,” Albert warned, also unaware of the other man’s intentions, but not liking it anyway.

“That’s real funny ‘cos you sound just like some of the criminals in ‘em. Talkin’ about your big schemes and all that nonsense.”

Milton rolled his eyes and shook his head. “My boys and I have wasted a lot of time tracking you down, Morgan. And in a land as… _lawless_ as this frustration builds up very easily.” Shadows fell over Arthur as the rest of the agents drew near. Milton stood up and regarded him, his arms crossing. “I’d say tonight is cause for celebration. A time to release all that frustration.”

He pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “Wagon should be here in a couple of minutes. I’ll go flag it down. Stay there, Mr. Mason.” He began trudging through the overgrown grass away from the camp. Raising his voice, he said, “Keep him alive.”

They needed no further instructions. Within seconds three agents were upon Arthur, one of them pressing him against the tree while the others took turns striking him, aiming for his chest, his stomach, his face. Albert wanted to be sick and his cries and pleas for them to stop fell on deaf ears, drowned out as they were by Arthur’s sharp shouts and the men’s grunts.

Desperate, Albert wobbled to his knees and began shuffling across the ground, his movements going unnoticed by the agents. When he was close enough he sat and swung his legs round in front of him and struck the nearest agent in the back of his knees. The man staggered and fell, and when the others turned, distracted, Albert twisted and aimed for another who was bent over Arthur. His foot connected with his head and Albert tried not to feel too horrified at the potential damage he may have caused.

The agents’ surprise was only brief, and soon Albert was being dragged away by the one he had first struck, his fingers digging painfully into Albert’s arms. He wriggled and tried to squirm out of the tight grasp, digging his feet into the dirt in an effort to slow them, but the agent was far stronger and he was thrust against the ground and hit across the face before he had time to realize what was happening.

Albert gasped and coughed at the blood filling his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue, and with a surge of anger he spat in the agent’s face. He brought his right leg up and kneed the man in the crotch, satisfied at the high-pitched yelp he emitted. Breathing heavily the agent unholstered his revolver and pressed it against Albert’s head, the cock of the hammer loud in his ear.

“Hey!” He heard Arthur shout from behind him, followed by rustling and grunting, but Albert found he had frozen under the weight of the agent, fear paralyzing his limbs.

“That’s enough, Daniels.” Milton appeared in his peripheral, seeming bored as he looked between the two scenes.

“You didn’t say nothing about killin’ this one, sir,” Daniels growled, his southern accent emphasized in anger. Albert heard more scuffling, and he chanced a look around Daniels to see a bloodied Arthur being lifted to his feet and hauled away, despite his weak struggling. He locked eyes with Albert and his thrashing strengthened in an attempt to get to the photographer, but one of the agents – clearly growing tired of his efforts – struck him with the butt of his gun. Arthur staggered and fell limp, and Albert’s heart stopped as he watched him be dragged down the slope and out of sight.

“No, but I need him for questioning. Get him up.”

Daniels obeyed and roughly pulled Albert to his feet, shoving him forward with the end of his revolver. He followed Milton past the camp and towards the road, where a police wagon was waiting. Albert could see through the bars that Arthur was already in there, unconscious and on his side.

Milton stood by the door, holding it open and smiling as Albert approached. He glared at the agent, wincing when Daniels came up behind him and pushed him inside. He hit the metal floor and twisted so he was sitting against one of the walls, shuffling close to Arthur.

“Won’t be long,” Milton said cheerfully, shutting the door and climbing up next to the driver, talking quietly to him. The wagon rattled after the agents who were riding ahead on horseback, and Albert winced at the pounding in his head. Arthur groaned and Albert shushed him, wishing his hands were untied so that he could provide some more comfort. His eyes fell on the outlaw and a bolt of inspiration struck him.

Keeping an eye on Milton in front, Albert shifted round until his hands were at Arthur’s boots. He began fiddling with the straps, meticulously mapping out the course leather and cursing each time his fingers slipped. Arthur groaned again and shifted, moving his foot away from Albert’s prodding, and he swore quietly.

“Arthur,” he whispered, twisting round to see the outlaw curling into himself with a frown. “Arthur?”

“Mmm?” He groaned loudly, sucking in a deep breath.

“Shh.” Albert glanced back at Milton, but the agent was still in conversation with the driver.

“Mason?” Arthur muttered, blinking sluggishly and lifting his head, only to wince and lower it back down.

“You need to be quiet, Arthur, please.”

“Y’alright?” he whispered, his green eyes rising to meet Albert’s hazel ones.

Albert huffed, shaking his head. “I’m really not the one you should be worrying about. I need your foot.”

“My… foot?”

“Yes your foot, move it towards my hands.” He outstretched his fingers in anticipation but Arthur didn’t move.

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to get you out of this mess,” he hissed, frustration in his tone. “I need your spurs, come on.”

“My….?”

“Spurs, Arthur.”

“Why do ya–”

“ _Just do it_!” He sighed, “Please.” He knew Arthur wasn’t thinking properly but he didn’t have time to go slowly with him, not knowing if and when Milton would turn around to check on them.

With a hitched breath, Arthur slid his leg to where Albert’s hands were waiting and Albert resumed his fiddling, following the thin strap that looped over his foot and connected to the spiked metal rowel. Finally he found the buckle and he swiftly began feeding the strap through it, wishing his hands would stop shaking.

“Ya hurt?” Arthur whispered, his voice nearly unintelligible.

“No, Arthur, I’m alright. Just focus on staying awake, will you? Don’t worry about me.”

“I… always…” He trailed off, grunting as he shifted slightly.

“I know,” Albert said, his vision blurring suddenly. “Me too.” He sniffed, trying to focus on what his hands were doing. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re…? Why?”

“This is all my fault. I’ve been so _stupid_. I should’ve known _Mumford_ was more than he said he was.”

“Mason... I can’t think right. Can’t argue with ya… right now.” He stopped and began coughing, a hacking, rattling sound that reverberated through his whole body and even though he did not want to, Albert made himself quickly slide away so that he was resting on the opposite wall.

Milton turned and pounded on the metal with his gloved fist, glaring at Arthur. “Enough with that, will you? I’ve a headache already and you’re hardly helping.”

Albert cleared his throat, loathing clear in his voice. “If you’ll untie me, I can help him,” he said. “Keep him… keep him quiet.”

“Nice try, Mr. Mason. I’m not letting you free, idiotic though you may be.” He turned back around with a final sneer, letting Arthur choke on his breaths.

“Arthur, _Arthur,_ ” Albert said hurriedly, edging closer. “Just breathe, please. Deep breaths. God _dammit_.” He tugged at the rope around his wrists, pulling and pulling but it wouldn’t give. There was no way he could slip his hands through.

“Listen to me, _listen to me_.” He knelt next to Arthur’s head and tried to ignore the wheezing gasps coming from him. “Focus on my voice, alright? Can you hear me?”

Arthur nodded, his face red and screwed up in pain.

“I-I know it’s easier said than done but you need to take a breath. One deep breath, that’s all. Can you do that?”

Arthur’s chest stuttered as he hitched in a quick breath but that only resulted in more wet, gurgling coughing. He arched his back and gagged, and Albert just had time to scrabble out of the way before Arthur threw up a small amount of blood and bile.

“Or – or do that,” Albert said as Arthur breathed heavily, finally able to catch his breath. “Let’s just, just move back a bit, hmm? Smelling that won’t do you any good.” Arthur hummed in response and shuffled away from the mess until his tied hands met the metal exterior. Albert watched him with a worried eye, knowing that for him to be coughing up blood meant something was wrong with his lungs. He needed a doctor, but Albert had no expectations of him getting to one anytime soon.

“Spurs?” Arthur whispered. He moved his leg closer again, and Albert smiled wearily.

“Yes, but just… just take it easy for a minute, hmm?”

“No time. Don’t know what you’re plannin’… but it’s better than nothin’.” He nudged Albert’s hands with his foot and Albert relented, quickly finding the strap he had been threading through the buckle and trying not to fret over how Arthur had fallen silent. Soon enough, though, the spur was free and in his hands, and Albert sighed in relief. He tucked the spur behind the waistband of his pants, wincing slightly as it dug into his skin, but with his hands covering the slight bulge he was confident it wouldn’t be spotted.

“I’m going to get you out of this, Arthur,” he whispered, looking at the other man. He had lapsed into unconsciousness and Albert studied his lax face, hoping he wasn’t in pain. He blinked and a tear dropped down his cheek. “I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> ***
> 
> *SPOILER ALERT. DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T REACHED CHAPTER 6*
> 
> ***  
> ***
> 
> In this fic Arthur's tb doesn't exist because I didn't really want to delve into that minefield and I'm much happier living in denial. This is just to let those of you know who were maybe thinking Arthur's coughing in this chapter is because of his illness. It ain't ;)


	12. Blackwater

They’d been travelling for over an hour and Albert’s back had grown stiff but he wasn’t paying it any heed. Instead he focused on Arthur and his labored breathing. He hadn’t woken since falling unconscious after coughing up blood and Albert was trying very hard to keep his own breathing under control. He knew Agent Milton wouldn’t care so there was little use in asking him to stop, and so Albert could only pray the agent wanted to keep Arthur alive long enough to see him hang.

The night grew warm as they traveled further south. Albert wasn’t sure where they were being taken. He’d assumed they were headed for the jail in Strawberry as that was nearest but they’d ridden straight through the small town and continued into the dense forest. As the trees thinned, as the greenery lightened into dry yellows, and as they crossed a thin stream that opened onto endless plains, Albert’s heart thudded in concern, wondering why they were being transported towards New Austin. He was unfamiliar with the region and delving further into an unknown area meant there were less variables to control and more factors that would put them in danger.

Albert could feel the spur he’d taken from Arthur’s boot digging into his back, and while the plan had been to use it to loosen the ropes binding his wrists, that still did little to get he and Arthur out of the wagon and then out of West Elizabeth before they reached New Austin. It was hardly a plan at all. Perhaps the best option would be to wait until they were taken wherever on Earth they were going, and then plan from there.

As the first of the sun’s rays spread across the land Albert caught sight of a town nestled on the horizon, the only burst of color among the arid landscape. A clanking against the cage drew his attention, and Albert turned his head to see Milton tapping it with his revolver.

“Blackwater,” he said cheerfully. “A real center of civilization here in the West.”

“Why here?”

Milton shrugged, “Van der Linde’s gang caused a hell of a lot of trouble here. A woman was killed, did you know that?”

Albert kept quiet, but when it became clear Milton actually wanted an answer, he lied, “No.”

“There’s much you don’t know about Morgan and his little band of criminals. You really ought to have been smarter over who you associated yourself with. You wouldn’t have gotten into this mess otherwise.”

He wouldn’t have gotten into this mess, and neither would Arthur. He didn’t need Milton to tell him how foolish he’d been. He’d had plenty of time during their ride to reflect on how his carelessness and obliviousness had gotten Arthur captured. Arthur had described Milton in the past as, “a manipulative jackass with a stupid haircut and a bowler hat.” As soon as ‘Mumford’ sidled up to him in Saint Denis he should have known who he was dealing with. Milton was certainly right about one thing: he _should_ have been smarter over who he associated himself with.

The wagon trundled through the empty streets of Blackwater and soon enough they were coming to a stop outside the jail. Milton climbed down and unlocked the door, gesturing with his head for Albert to move. He shuffled to the lip of the wagon and swung his legs, but Milton grew impatient and pulled him out, already focusing on Arthur and not reacting as Albert stumbled.

“Daniels, take him.” His arms were grabbed and he was shoved forward, and Albert strained his neck to see what was happening to Arthur behind him. Another agent was dragging him out of the wagon and following Daniels, the outlaw’s boots trailing in the dirt and his head bobbing against his chest.

The sheriff of Blackwater was stood in the entrance, a grey mustached man who regarded Albert with a cold look. Behind him, sitting at one of the desks was a younger, red-haired man, clearly the deputy. He got to his feet as Daniels and Albert entered and he rushed to open the cell on the right. Albert was pushed inside and the door clanged behind him.

“You got him then.” the sheriff observed as Milton entered, followed by the agent hauling Arthur. He was dropped into the other cell, dumped on the thin bed. Arthur groaned and drew his legs up, shifting subconsciously against his bonds.

“Hanging’s in two days. Friday,” Milton said, looking at Albert. “We’ll decide what to do with _you_ afterwards.” He turned to leave, nodding at his agents to go before him, but Albert moved closer and drew his attention.

“Arthur needs a doctor,” Albert said, his tone stern. “If you wish to hang him so badly you need to at least make sure he’s alive by then.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s always been annoyingly persistent.”

Albert kicked the bars in frustration. “ _He was coughing up blood!_ He won’t last the night!”

“ _Quiet_ , Mr. Mason," he said icily, "Don’t make me gag you.”

“You would let him choke to death? Are you really so inhumane?”

Milton surged closer, gripping Albert’s shirt and pulling him against the bars. “Do not lecture _me_ on what is and isn’t humane, when _he_ has murdered countless people for the sake of a score.”

“I thought you were a lawman,” Albert hissed. “I thought you were supposed to be _better_ than him.”

The corner of Milton’s lip twisted into a cruel smile. “You keep this up, and I’ll think about hanging you too.” He released Albert and marched to the door. “Send for a doctor. If Mr. Mason gives you any trouble do not hesitate to contact me. We’ll return in two days.” The group of dark coats left, and Albert sat on his bed, feeling less threatened despite the situation he was in. Across the room, the sheriff settled into a chair and crossed his legs on the desk. He glanced at the deputy.

“He’s like that all the time, son.”

“Oh,” the deputy said, sinking into the other chair. Albert watched them both with a frown.

“Yeah, that weren’t a one-time thing in Van Horn. Trust me, you don’t wanna work for that asshole.” The sheriff met Albert’s eyes. “If you were on the other side of that cell, I’d shake your hand.”

“When will the doctor be here?” Albert asked, his tone persistent.

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Pop into Tom’s on your way home, will ya son? Send him here. It’s a little early but tell him it’s important.”

“Yes, sir.” The deputy yawned as he gathered his jacket and hat. He smiled as he opened the door. “See you tonight.”

“See ya kiddo.”

The deputy left and the sheriff’s warm expression dropped. His gaze fell on Arthur.

“He caused a lot of pain here,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “With any luck, we’ll have ‘em all by the end of the week.”

“What do you mean?”

“Same thing happens each time one of ‘em gets arrested. A few others come along and break ‘em out. But that’s why you two are here. Blackwater’s crawling with them Pinkertons, has been ever since the raid. As soon as Van der Linde or one of his followers steps into town, they’ll be surrounded.”

“You’re using Arthur to lure them out?”

“Two birds, one stone, ain’t it? Get rid of one criminal,” He nodded at Arthur, “and in the process catch a few more.”

“Will you untie him, please?” Albert asked. “He’s in no state to try anything.”

“I’m not doing that. I ain’t stupid.”

“Having his arms behind his back won’t help his breathing–”

“You’re getting your damn doctor, and that’s it,” he snapped. “This ain’t some fancy hotel. Seems to me like you don’t fully understand the position that you’re in.”

“I understand it perfectly, Sheriff, but I really don’t care about–”

“You should,” he said sharply. “I know why you’re in there. And once the men in the penitentiary find out, you ain’t gonna last a month.” He took a cigar from his drawer and lit it. “And if you keep pestering Agent Milton, he’ll _make sure_ they find out.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Albert whispered, his attention diverting from Arthur momentarily while he considered his bleak future.

“According to the law you have,” he said around the cigar. When Albert opened his mouth to retaliate, he held up a hand. “I’m not gonna sit here and debate politics with ya, so don’t bother. This is my job. 6am to 6pm I uphold the law, and then I go home to my wife. You wanna make a change, why don’t you bother President McKinley about it.”

“It’s _wrong_ ,” he hissed.

The sheriff shrugged. “Like I said. Ain’t my problem.”

The door opened before Albert could say anything else and a dark-haired man in a doctor’s coat stepped in.

“You called for me, Sheriff Pike?” he asked, his tone tired.

“Yeah, Tom. I know it’s early but I need you to take a look at one of mine.” He got up from the desk and walked over to Arthur’s cell, the doctor following him.

“What happened?”

“He was beaten,” Albert spoke up, his voice hard. “Repeatedly. He’s been coughing blood. I think his lungs–”

“Tom’ll deal with it, Mason, pipe down,” the sheriff said as he unlocked the door. The doctor stepped in and felt for Arthur’s pulse, his gaze travelling up and down as he examined his injuries. He withdrew a stethoscope from his bag and pressed it against Arthur’s chest, frowning as he listened.

“Well something isn’t right,” he murmured absent-mindedly. “I think your convict may be right about his lungs. There’s definitely some build-up of fluid.”

“Christ,” Albert whispered, leaning back until his head connected with the wall with a quiet _thunk_.

“When was he beaten?” the doctor addressed Albert, looking across to him with a determined eye.

“Last night. Only a few hours ago, in fact.”

The doctor nodded. “Then there’s still time. I’ll need to take him to my surgery.”

“Absolutely not,” Sheriff Pike interrupted.

Albert sat up, “You can’t–”

“He’s my patient now, Sheriff, he’s under my care,” the doctor said sternly.

“I’m not letting him outta this jail, that’s crazy.”

“If you’re concerned about him escaping then let me assure you he is in no condition to do so. He’s not responded to my examination so it’s unlikely he’ll wake any time soon. Once I’ve got him on my table he’ll be heavily sedated so again, he won’t wake. After I’m finished he can return here to recuperate.” He stood and packed away his stethoscope. “Left like this he’ll be dead by this evening.”

“Milton won’t like that,” Albert said quickly. Sheriff Pike rolled his eyes.

“I’m aware.” He sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll help you take him there.”

He and the doctor lifted Arthur out of the cell and through the jail, and for the whole time Arthur remained limp. Albert could feel tendrils of panic creeping up his spine, and he tried to reassure himself that Arthur was being seen to, that he would be okay. It wasn’t very effective.

As soon as the door closed and Albert was left alone he quickly tugged Arthur’s spur from out of his waistband and positioned the metal rowel against the rope around his wrists. It wasn’t sharp enough to sever anything, but Albert hoped to loosen the ropes by applying the rowel as a more flexible appendage, one that could bend and reach further than his fingers could. He trailed the rowel along the rope, trying to picture the knot and the way it was tied from what he could feel. He didn’t know how long the sheriff would be, and while he needed time to concentrate he was also very aware that the longer he took the more likely the sheriff was to catch him in the act.

When he felt confident in where the best opening would be, Albert inserted the rowel through the knot and began twisting. At first nothing moved, but after a bit of coaxing Albert slipped the rowel further upwards and tried again, almost laughing when he felt the rope begin to give.

The back door opened. Albert jumped and stopped what he was doing, shuffling against the wall and trying not to look suspicious. An aging man walked in, stopping when he saw the empty desk. His navy jacket, adorned with gold buttons, and matching hat told Albert that he was a postman, and as if confirming it, the man began rifling through his large satchel.

“S’pose Sheriff ain’t in?” he grumbled, casting a disgruntled look at Albert.

Albert shook his head, his hands growing sweaty around the spur. The postman sighed.

“When is he ever?” he muttered, almost to himself. He crossed the room and headed for the sheriff’s desk. “Every morning I come here, 6:30 on the dot, and is he ever here to receive his mail? Like Hell he is.” He slapped some envelopes down onto the desk, shaking his head.

“Have to leave my wagon out on the street, blocking other folk but does he care?” He sat down in the sheriff’s chair. “What if those are important?” He tapped the envelopes. “Warrants, or wanted posters? Could be a matter of life and death, y’know.”

“He’s with a doctor,” Albert said quietly, coughing to clear his suddenly hoarse throat and wishing desperately that the postman would leave.

“He could be with old Victoria across the pond but that don’t mean shit. He’s s’posed to be here to receive his mail and he never is. Makes me late and all.”

He grew silent and Albert began slowly working the rowel again, hoping his arms weren’t moving too much to give him away. He kept a keen eye on the postman but all the elder man was doing was whistling to himself and glancing around the jail with a bored expression.

Three painstakingly long minutes later Sheriff Pike returned, a sour look on his face. He tossed Arthur’s hat onto the desk, stopping when he saw the postman, and the two glared at each other for a moment.

“Robert.”

“Sheriff. Got your mail. Sign this.”

Sheriff Pike bent to sign the piece of paper the postman was offering, and once he was done the postman snatched the pen off of him and marched to the door, closing it behind him without another word.

“Jackass,” the sheriff muttered.

“How’s Arthur?” Albert asked.

“I don’t know, do I? I ain’t the doctor.” He kicked his legs back onto the desk, slumping in his seat. “Should be there for the rest of the day, Tom said. If all goes to plan he’ll be back in his cell by nightfall.”

 _If_. Albert really hoped that _if_ became a _when_. As the sheriff opened the first envelope on the pile Albert wriggled the rowel deeper among the rope, encouraged by the slacking around his wrists. He could finally move them a little, and while he was grateful to get some feeling back in his hands he wasted no time in sliding one out of the bindings and shoving the rope off his other hand.

He was free. He’d actually done it.

Now what?


	13. Blackwater II

Albert hadn’t moved from his spot in the corner for five hours, tucked against the wall with his knees drawn up. Sheriff Pike had been humming to himself for the past two hours, interrupted only when a stranger popped their head in to chat or a bounty hunter entered to collect a wanted poster. Albert’s hands were still behind his back, his clammy palms clutched around the rope he’d untied that morning as he tried to think of what to do next. Arthur was still with the doctor, and so even if Albert did somehow break free from the jail, he had the second problem of finding Arthur and getting the two of them out of Blackwater. And even if they _did_ get out of Blackwater, Albert had no idea of the condition Arthur was in; for all he knew the outlaw had _died_ at the doctors.

He hadn’t died. Albert would have heard by now.

He hadn’t died.

He–

“Did the doctor tell you how long he’d spend with Arthur?” he asked the sheriff.

Sheriff Pike shrugged, “Nope.” At this point he was reading a newspaper with his feet propped on the desk again. He turned a page and continued reading.

“Didn’t you ask?”

“Why would I? Tom said he’ll probably be back tonight; that’s good enough for me.”

“But what if he gets worse? Milton won’t–”

Sheriff Pike lowered the paper, shooting Albert a dirty look. “You’ve already played that card, it ain’t gonna work again.” He huffed a laugh, his gaze drifting back to the newspaper. “No point worryin’ about him. Even if Tom fixes him up, he’ll be hanged in two days anyway. And then you,” He crooked an eyebrow. “Are off to the penitentiary, I hear.”

Albert fell silent, his heart sinking. The thought of Arthur with a noose around his neck was an image he had fervently refused to think about, and he hadn’t even begun to imagine what would happen to _him_ should Arthur actually be hanged. The sheriff had been right about what he’d said earlier that morning: Albert wouldn’t last a month.

“Ya know, while I got no sympathy for your situation,” the sheriff began, and Albert fought not to roll his eyes. “I have to take my hat off to you for makin’ Milton look so stupid.” He chuckled and shook his head, clearly recalling something.

“It wasn’t my intention,” Albert said dully, which served to make the sheriff laugh outright.

“I know, that’s why it’s so damn satisfyin’. He comes in here a month or so ago, braggin’ about how he’s gonna catch Van der Linde’s top gun and how it was ‘ _imperative_ ’ to keep a cell free for when that happens, and he thought you was just gonna be a small little factor in helpin’ him.”

“Yes, he’s told me that already.”

Sheriff Pike began counting on his finger. “You left the exhibition in Van Horn before Morgan could show up – almost makin’ my deputy have a heart attack when you refused to go back with him, by the way, ‘cos he didn’t wanna be the one to tell Milton.”

The young deputy had seemed familiar to Albert, and now that the sheriff had mentioned it Albert could clearly remember seeing boy when he knocked on his hotel room door and tried to persuade him to go back to the exhibition. Now that he knew why he was wanted back, Albert was very thankful he’d let his pride get the better of him.

“Then Milton gets one of his goons to try and pick a fight with Morgan in the saloon in Annesburg to draw him outside, but he weren’t expectin’ a bunch of Van der Linde’s lot to be there so he has to back off.”

“That was hardly my fault,” Albert pointed out.

“Yeah, he didn’t get real pissed off with ya until Valentine. Oh boy, it sure was somethin’ to see him come in here ragin’ and cursin’ your name,” Sheriff Pike wheezed. “Got ya drunk, didn’t he, to get ya to tell him where Morgan was, but then you go and stagger around in the street just as a load of his boys arrive at the station and so he has to call off the arrest again.”

“How do you know so much about his plans?”

“’Cos that’s all he’d talk about,” the sheriff cackled. “Goin’ on and on about his clever schemes, and then a few hours later he’d be back with his tail between his legs because you kept inadvertently messin’ it up. He didn’t want to get you involved but after Valentine – no, after the _article_ …” He dissolved into laughter, and Albert was left staring dumbfounded at him, barely understanding what he was talking about.

“Article?”

“You got a damn article written about ya! Some reporter started praisin’ your exhibitions and that drew attention to you, and therefore Milton. He thought he could get the papers recalled but that was hardly gonna work, was it? So instead he was forced to act before your exhibition in Strawberry ‘cos otherwise there woulda been a load of people there, and it was only then he finally caught ya.” His laughter died down but mirth was still gleaming in his eyes. “What was s’posed to be a one-week mission turned into a month-long endeavour, and Milton spent a lotta money on you two, so you can appreciate why he’s been on such a short fuse.” Sheriff Pike smirked. “Head office ain’t been too happy with him, ya know.”

“Good,” Albert muttered, and the sheriff nodded.

“Woulda been more satisfyin’ if he hadn’t caught ya at all, but,” He trailed off, smiling down at his newspaper. “Can’t have everythin’, I guess.”

There was a knock at the door, and the doctor suddenly entered. Albert straightened, desperate for any news.

“I’ve done all I could,” he said, holding open the door as two men came in carrying a stretcher between them. On it lay Arthur, looking as pale as when he’d been taken away. He was still unconscious and his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal white bandages wrapped around his midsection. The cuts on his face had been cleaned, and Albert thought he could see stitches closing one wound on the right side of his forehead.

“Survived your knife, then?” the sheriff observed, having stood to unlock the cell.

“Barely,” the doctor said. “It was a close thing. Thought I was going to lose him a couple of hours into it.”

It was as if he was deliberately saying things that would make Albert’s insides boil with fear. On the way to Blackwater he told himself it was his paranoia that had him believing Arthur was close to death, but to hear it confirmed by a doctor made his mouth dry and his heart thud heavily.

Arthur was lowered back onto the bed, his head lolling towards the wall. The two orderlies left the jail without saying a word, and the doctor bent over Arthur, checking something. As Sheriff Pike approached with rope in his hands, Albert stood up, still conscious to keep his own hands hidden from view even as a surge of outrage coursed through him.

“You can’t be serious,” he said sharply, making the doctor turn. His eyes fell on what the sheriff was holding.

“Absolutely not.” He stood in front of Arthur, his arms crossed.

“Tom,” Sheriff Pike sighed. “Come on.”

“I am not letting you tie him up again. He’s still recovering.”

“He’s a dangerous convict.”

“He’s _half_ - _dead_.”

“For all you know, he’s actin’!”

“You can’t be serious, Sheriff. It’s my professional opinion that he’s _half-dead_. You’re not tying him up.”

Sheriff Pike sighed again and backed away, tossing the rope into a corner of the room. “Fine, fine. If he gets out, though, it’ll be on your head.”

“If he gets out it’ll be a miracle,” the doctor muttered. “He won’t be leaving that cell any time soon, I can assure you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” the sheriff waved him off. “I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks for this.” He gestured vaguely at Arthur.

“I’ll be back to check on him in an hour,” the doctor said, heading to the door. “That rope better stay in the corner.”

Albert perched back onto the bed, his heart finally settling into a normal rhythm.

“Stubborn bastard,” the sheriff muttered, sitting down again.

“Is there anyone here you actually like?” Albert asked faintly, his eyes roving over Arthur as he spoke, checking for any sign that he might wake soon.

“Quiet, Mason,” he said gruffly, his civil mood shifting into something more sour. Albert wondered if it was because Arthur was back in the jail. He remembered the cold expression on the sheriff’s face when they’d first arrived, and he could accept that having one of the men responsible for a disastrous ferry heist lying in a jail cell would bring out strong emotions in a man, and Albert could only be grateful the sheriff wasn’t the kind of person to take his frustration out on Arthur, unlike Milton and his men. As lazy and reluctant to do anything as Sheriff Pike seemed, he was still loyal to his job, to the law – even if that law was wrong on certain points.

Albert decided to heed Sheriff Pike’s words and kept quiet. He remained that way until evening, shuffling back on his bed and watching Arthur while the sheriff went about his business for the rest of the day. The doctor returned a few more times, seemingly satisfied with Arthur’s condition. As the day passed, thoughts swirled around Albert’s mind, never once settling as daylight dimmed, and he ended up closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, exhaustion tugging him into a restless sleep.

A muffled shuffling brought him out of his stupor, and Albert blinked wearily and looked about the jail. It had gotten dark outside and the sheriff had turned on the lights at some point, a warm yellow glow from the lamps blanketing the jail. Sheriff Pike was still at his desk, a fountain pen in his hand and a faint frown on his forehead as he wrote something. The sound Albert heard hadn’t come from him, though. It came from opposite his cell.

Arthur was stirring, his boots dragging against the linen as he rolled onto his side, facing Albert. His face was screwed in pain as he continued shifting, drawing his legs closer to his body, his hands gripping the bed tightly. He inhaled sharply, and Sheriff Pike looked up.

“Waking, is he?” he asked quietly. Albert nodded.

“Thought he was goin’ to be out all night.” He sighed. “Gonna have to warn Westworth.”

“Who’s Westworth?”

“My deputy. He takes nights. I was hopin’ he wouldn’t have to deal with Morgan, now I’ll need to let him know.”

“What, in case Arthur breaks out?” Albert said, irritation bleeding into his voice.

Sheriff Pike shot him a withering look. “Enough with that, Mason. It’s my job to keep the criminals in those cells, and that’s what I’m doing. It ain’t a bad thing to take precautions.”

Albert opened his mouth to argue, but the sheriff held up a finger, “I said enough,” he snapped. “He ain’t gettin’ out, and I’m just making sure of that.”

The jail fell into silence, broken only by the occasional hitched breath from Arthur as he emerged from the inky blackness that was unconsciousness. Albert could only hope he wasn’t in too much pain, even though it seemed futile to do so.

About an hour later the door opened again and Deputy Westworth stepped in, his young face expressive and blatantly showing his apprehension when his eyes fell on Arthur.

“Y’alright, son?” Sheriff Pike asked, getting to his feet with a groan.

“Just fine, sir.”

“Least you won’t be alone tonight. Mason’s real yappy, you ain’t gonna get a moment’s peace.”

Albert flushed involuntarily, hating how easily he could be embarrassed. Westworth’s eyes flickered over him before he addressed the sheriff.

“Why – why’s he in there, again?”

Sheriff Pike sighed. “Come outside with me for a minute. I need to brief you on what to do tonight, and I’ll tell ya then.” He clapped a hand on the deputy’s shoulder and led him back to the door, and the two of them stepped out into the night.

This was his chance. This _had_ to be his chance. Mason rushed to his cell door and knelt in front of it, pulling Arthur’s spur from his waistband and jamming one of the spikes into the lock. He began wiggling it around, fervently praying he could get the lock open, but as the minutes ticked by and nothing happened, Albert began to panic.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, his voice breaking when he dropped the spur, his hands too sweaty to hold it steady. It clinked against the stone floor and landed just outside his door, and Albert continued to curse as he stretched his arm through the bars to reach it.

“ _Nonononononononono_ –”

“…Mason?”


	14. Blackwater III

“– _nonono_ Arthur?” His head whipped up to see Arthur’s green eyes watching him from the other cell, a frown creasing his face as he considered Albert.

“What…?”

“Keep quiet, Arthur, I’m getting us out of here.” The tips of his fingers reached the spur, sitting tantalizingly out of reach on the other side of the cell door, and Albert tried desperately to knock it towards him. It shifted minutely, and he bit his lip to prevent himself from swearing any more.

He heard a quiet moan from the other cell, and he briefly looked up. Arthur had raised himself onto his elbows and he was looking around blearily, his head bobbing as he blinked repeatedly.

“How do you feel?” Albert asked in a low voice.

“Dizzy,” he muttered, bringing a hand to his eyes. “Nauseous.”

“You can go back to sleep, Arthur, you’ll recover quicker.”

“What are you doin’?”

“I told you, I’m trying to – ah! Yes!” His fingers clasped the spur and he quickly jammed the rowel back into the lock, trying to get a feel for how to release the mechanism.

“You can pick locks?”

“No, but I went to a vaudeville show in New York once and saw a man break out of chains with only a nail.” He cursed as the rowel slipped. “It was quite spectacular.”

“And what, if he can do it… so can you?”

Albert brandished the spur. “This is thinner than the nail he used. It has to work.”

He heard Arthur wheeze a quiet laugh. “I think that kinda thing takes practice.”

“Well I didn’t exactly have time to prepare,” he snapped, his face heating up the longer he failed to open the door.

“Mason,” Arthur sighed.

“Arthur,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just let me do this, will you? I’m trying to…” _Do something right for once_ , he wanted to say, but instead he trailed off, focusing.

Arthur’s eyes drifted away from him, examining the room as Albert worked. Moments later he jerked upright. “Mason.” he said abruptly. “The door.”

Albert needed no further warning, jumping back onto the bed and shoving his arms behind his back before Sheriff Pike and Deputy Westworth came back in. Westworth seemed perturbed over something and Albert wondered what it was the sheriff had said to him, but nothing was spoken as the sheriff gathered his things and headed for the door with a final nod to the deputy, resolutely ignoring Arthur’s sharp gaze.

Westworth sat upright in his chair, seemingly unable to relax like the sheriff had. He looked from Albert to Arthur and then down at his desk, shuffling some papers and fiddling with his pen. He cleared his throat and looked back at his prisoners.

“I take no funny business Morgan,” he said, in what was clearly supposed to be an intimidating manner. The squeaky southern voice didn’t help much.

In response, Arthur cocked an eyebrow, looking unimpressed even with his pale skin and dark bags under his eyes.

“Alright,” he drawled.

Westworth looked to Albert. “And Sheriff told me how demandin’ you’ve been. I’ll be havin’ none of that, you understand?”

“If I hadn’t ‘demanded’ a doctor, you and Sheriff Pike would have been dealing with a very irate Agent Milton,” he said coldly. “And I understand your previous encounter with him did not go so smoothly.” He ignored Arthur’s inquisitive look, instead trying not to get angry.

“That was because o’ you!” Westworth exclaimed, jabbing a finger at him. “If you’d just listened to me, Agent Milton wouldn’t have been angry!”

“Then may I suggest you work on your persuasion skills,” he replied. “You hardly inspired me to return to an empty saloon.”

Westworth sighed, evidently wanting to argue more, but instead he shifted in his chair and ignored Albert. He could still feel Arthur’s eyes on him, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Doctor?” Arthur asked quietly, and even though they saw Westworth tense at the noise, he didn’t say anything, and so the outlaw continued. “You hurt?” His brows were furrowed in concern as he looked Albert over.

“For you,” he answered. “It was, um, rather worrying.”

“Oh.” Arthur glanced down at himself as if now realizing he was wounded. He poked at the bandage and consequently winced, a harsh inhalation betraying the jab of pain that most likely coursed through him at the contact.

“You ain’t been cleaned up,” he pointed out, and Albert huffed a quiet laugh.

“A few cuts and bruises hardly compare to you, Arthur, believe me. I’ll clean myself up when… well.” He stopped abruptly as it dawned on him that he didn’t know when he’d next get the chance to clean himself.

Arthur was still frowning at him. “Hey.” He suddenly addressed the deputy, who had obviously been listening to them. He looked unsurprised when Arthur turned to him.

“What?” he asked, reluctance in his tone.

“Why’s Mr. Mason locked up?”

Westworth looked between the two as Albert felt himself freeze. “Because he’s a criminal,” the young man explained.

“What’s his crime?” he growled.

“Arthur,” Albert interrupted, wanting desperately for him not to pursue those questions. He had a strong feeling Arthur wouldn’t like the answer he’d get.

“I think perhaps you should be more concerned with yourself, Morgan.”

“I am well aware of what’s comin’ for me, now I asked you about Mr. Mason. What’s his crime?”

Westworth gestured to Albert. “Well you know…” He trailed off as if that was a coherent answer, and the longer the exchange went on the longer Albert wished it was him who was being hanged, and that it would happen immediately.

“No, I don’t. _That’s why I’m askin_ ’.” Arthur staggered to his feet and gripped the bars, a cold expression on his face.

“Arthur you’ll strain yourself–”

“ _Quiet_ , Mason,” he snapped, and he sounded so much like Milton that Albert found himself recoiling when he was met with an icy snarl. “Now answer me, boy.”

“I ain’t gonna do a thing you–”

Arthur struck the bars, the metal clanging loudly around the room. “ _Answer me_!”

“Arthur!”

“A-aiding and abetting!” Westworth yelped, clutching the arms of his chair tightly. “For… for, helping you evade the law and such.”

“He’s done no such thing,” he said lowly, his voice infused with anger. “It weren’t his intention.”

“For Christ’s sake, _sit down_ ,” Albert instructed. “You’re going to undo the doctor’s work.”

“Mason,” he hissed, shooting him an irritated glare, “I’m tryin’ to–”

“Sit!” Albert shouted, surprising Arthur and Westworth. He pointed a finger as his voice rose. “Get it through your dense skull that I’m looking out for you and _sit down before you tear your stitches._ ”

Westworth was staring steadfastly at his desk, a blush rising up his neck and merging with his red hair. Arthur considered him for a moment before finally complying, sitting stiffly onto the bed. He chanced a quick look at Westworth – who was still avoiding them – and mouthed, _‘Hands’_.

Albert frowned for a moment, uncomprehending, until Arthur nodded at him and he realized with a cold shock of fear that he’d taken his hands from behind his back. They were swiftly behind him again, and Albert fervently hoped Westworth hadn’t noticed.

“You two finished?” Westworth asked tiredly, and Albert sighed.

“Yes.”

The deputy looked up, appearing weary. “Sheriff weren’t jokin’ when he said you was demandin’, then.”

“It seems not,” Albert muttered. He was too busy breathing an internal sigh of relief that his misstep hadn’t been spotted to listen to the younger man properly.

Arthur was breathing heavily, recovering from his outburst.

“It’s been five minutes,” the deputy muttered.

“Real sorry for inconveniencin’ you,” Arthur bit out. “Why don’tcha come over here and I’ll apologize properly?”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Albert sighed, closing his eyes.  

“Thought I said no funny business,” Westworth said, no longer sounding scared of the other man. Albert could hear papers being shuffled, and he assumed the deputy was trying to restore some form of calm and order to the room. He opened his eyes to see Arthur watching him, still looking irate and ready for another argument.

“Rest,” Albert said tiredly, already regretting his outburst. Of course Arthur would be riled up, his hanging was in _two days_. If Albert was about to be put to death, he would be on edge too.

“Just sleep for a bit,” he continued. “There’ll be no escaping in your current condition.”

“There’ll be no escaping at all,” said Westworth from the other side of the room.

Albert winked at Arthur and the outlaw smiled slightly, rolling his eyes. He slid down the bed until he was lying down and closed his eyes, and as the minutes ticked by and Albert watched him slip into sleep he felt himself relaxing slightly, hoping the other man would not be in so much pain.

He was silent for a long time, his head resting against the wall and his arms aching behind his back. He was beginning to accept that there may not be a daring escape, as much as he’d planned for one. If he couldn’t even get the door open, there was no way they were getting out of Blackwater. The last thing Albert wanted to do was give up, knowing that once he did, he was effectively signing Arthur’s death sentence, but he could think of no other way of getting them out, especially with the condition Arthur was in.

He was going to be forced to watch the man he… cared deeply for, be killed.

His vision began to blur and so he shut his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. He could feel himself on the verge of breaking down, and that was not something he wanted to do in front of Westworth. Nonetheless, his throat tightened the more he ruminated on his situation, and he swallowed heavily, coughing to clear his throat. Albert opened his eyes and when he looked around the room he spotted Westworth watching him, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Albert frowned, recalling what Westworth had said earlier and finding now was the best time to ask about it, now that Arthur was asleep.

“Aiding and abetting?” he asked quietly, checking again that Arthur wasn’t listening. When the outlaw didn’t move, he continued. “Really?”

Westworth shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Sure,” he said, equally quietly. “You was interfering in Agent Milton’s plans.”

“That isn’t what Milton told me.”

“It’s the truth,” Westworth said. “And it’s a crime.”

“That it is,” Albert agreed, closing his eyes again.

“Otherwise you… you wouldn’t be in there.”

“Right,” he murmured.

Silence descended again, and Albert was close to dropping off to sleep himself when Westworth spoke once more.

“Sheriff told me, you know.”

Albert opened his eyes, turning his head towards the young deputy. “Did he?”

Westworth nodded. “Said you’ll be taken to the penitentiary ‘cos you’re a… you’re unnatural.”

Albert swallowed, his gaze falling on Arthur, who thankfully wasn’t listening.

Westworth seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “I figured… I figured Morgan didn’t know, so I came up with somethin’ else.”

“I appreciate it,” Albert said quietly, genuinely.

Westworth cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter and leaning forwards in his chair. “You care for him, don’tcha?”

He said nothing; Westworth wasn’t exactly the person he wanted to discuss this with.

“You look upset.”

“I’m sitting in a jail cell. Did you think I’d be amused?”

“You ain’t said a word about goin’ to Sisika, though. Most folk try and protest their innocence, at least.”

“What would be the point?”

“It just seems to me you’re more upset over Morgan than you are yourself.”

“Does it?” he asked tiredly.

When Westworth spoke again, his voice was quieter, close to a whisper, “I knew someone like you.”

Albert glanced sideways at him, making an inquisitive noise.

“No one talks about him no more. They act like he don’t exist. He also – uh – cared for people like Morgan. We was just kids then, though. Seventeen and nineteen. I was older.”

“Where is he now?” Albert asked.

Westworth glanced out the window. “On the hill, just outside the churchyard. The priest wouldn’t have him buried on holy ground, y’know. They found him with his pa’s revolver and a note saying he couldn’t help the way he was. I think people tried to get him to change. I don’t know. I stopped speakin’ to him after it all came out.”

Albert stayed silent, but his heart was thudding heavily against his ribcage. Westworth seemed oblivious to his distress and continued talking.

“I wish I hadn’t, though. I think about him a lot.”

“What was his name?” Albert whispered.

Westworth laughed, a low, hollow sound. “Arthur.”

An unchecked tear dropped down Albert’s cheek and he wiped it against his shoulder. “Popular name,” he said, blinking rapidly to prevent more tears.

“Sure is,” Westworth muttered. He frowned. “You know, if I was Sheriff, it would just be Morgan in those cells. Not you.”

“Funnily enough, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I didn’t think it would, but I wouldn’t be able to do nothin’ about him. He’s a wanted man. People died because of him.”

“He wasn’t on that boat,” Albert argued, his tone weary because he knew it was futile. Milton wouldn’t have cared, Sheriff Pike wouldn’t have believed him, and Westworth was so clearly intimidated by the man that he wouldn’t listen to Albert’s defense.

“What do you mean he weren’t on the boat?” Westworth asked, his tone sharp.

Albert considered him for a moment, reassessing his assumption. “ _I mean_ ,” he said, “he wasn’t involved. Sheriff Pike and Milton have both questioned my allegiance with him but do you think I’d associate myself with a man involved in that massacre?”

Westworth frowned, “I thought it was kinda odd, but–”

“I asked him,” Albert continued, his voice low. “Of course I asked him. Any man with half a brain knows what happened here and who was responsible. As soon as I learned Arthur was a part of Van der Linde’s gang, I demanded to know what his role had been that day. And he told me he was on the other side of town, planning something else. _He wasn’t on that boat_.”

“How do you know he weren’t lying?” Westworth asked, sounding unconvinced.

“Arthur doesn’t lie to me.”

“Yeah but how do you know?”

“I don’t,” Albert sighed, “I have no reason to believe he has, and generally speaking my gut instinct has been rather reliable.”

“You didn’t notice Agent Milton being someone he wasn’t.”

“I said generally,” he retorted. “It’s not fully accurate.”

“That’s real unfortunate for you.”

Albert tipped his head back again. “Yes, it is.”

* * *

 

Arthur slept through the night, and Albert was grateful for that. He himself drifted in and out of consciousness, waking whenever Westworth’s shifting in his chair made it creak, and falling under again once he’d grown accustomed to the noise. When 6am rolled around and the door opened to announce Sheriff Pike’s arrival, Albert woke fully, his arms still held behind his back even though they strained for a new position. As the sheriff stepped in, Albert could hear the clocktower chiming outsider, a chilling reminder that there was 24 hours until Arthur’s hanging.

“Any trouble?” Sheriff Pike asked, removing his hat and circling his desk.

“No, sir,” Westworth said.

“That’s what I like to hear.” He shot Albert a sickly sweet smile, and Albert grimaced in return. “Get yourself home, son, you’ve done a good job.”

“Thank you, sir.” Westworth gathered his things and shrugged on his jacket, avoiding eye contact with the sheriff. “See you tonight.”

“That you will.” He headed for the back exit and the door closed resolutely behind him, and as squeaky and nosy as he’d been, Albert wished he was the one to guard them and not Sheriff Pike.

“Morgan not woken?” he asked, his feet coming to rest on the desk as per usual.

“No,” Albert said, his voice fatigued. He had come to enjoy the peace and quiet from the last few hours, and now he wasn’t in the mood for the sheriff’s inane comments and blasé attitude regarding he and Arthur.

“Thought he was getting better?”

Albert shrugged. “Nothing’s changed,” he said shortly.

Sheriff Pike shot him a bemused look. “What’s put you in such a dour mood?”

Albert raised a brow. “You really have to ask?”

The sheriff didn’t look impressed, “Well?” he pressed, and at that moment a dark thought slithered into Albert’s mind.

“Perhaps I’m just rethinking some things,” he said airily.

“Like what?”

“Like my position in here.”

Sheriff Pike chuckled. “I’m afraid no amount of thinkin’ on your behalf is gonna change that.”

“What if I had information?”

The sheriff paused, his dark eyes burrowing into Albert’s as he processed the question. “What kind of information?”

Albert shuffled to the end of his bed, leaning forward. “On Dutch Van der Linde and his gang.”

Sheriff Pike snorted, “And what would you know about any of that?”

He cleared his throat, attempting to look confident. “Men like me have ways of learning things, as I’m sure you’re aware, Sheriff.”

The other man’s eyes widened, and his feet fell from the desk. “Now listen, Mason, I don’t wanna hear about whatever the hell it is you two–”

“But I know you’ll want to hear what I’ve learned from Arthur,” he continued, talking over the Sheriff. “I know what that gang is planning next.”

“And you’re just going to tell me?” he asked, sounding unconvinced.

“I’ve had some time to think, Sheriff. To re-evaluate. You were right about what you said yesterday: I won’t last a month at the penitentiary. I think it’s time I started looking out for myself.”

“And so, what? You expect that once you talk to me, I’ll let you out?”

The corner of Albert’s mouth tugged up, “It’s big, Sheriff. What they’ve got brewing? It’s going to be bigger than Blackwater.”

Sheriff Pike’s expression grew stern. “Alright. You’ve got a deal. Tell me.”

Albert stood up and neared the bars. “Come here, then. I don’t want Arthur to hear me. God knows what could happen to me if it ever got out I talked.”

The sheriff got up from the desk and ambled over to him. “Quick to save your own skin, ain’t ya?” he said with a raised brow.

“Like I said, I’ve had time to think. And I’m doing you a favor, aren’t I?”

“Depends on what you’ve got.” He stopped a few feet away, an expectant expression on his face.

“You’ll have to get closer than that. I don’t want to risk him hearing my voice.”

Sheriff Pike rolled his eyes but consented. He stepped closer until the two were face to face, separated only by the metal bars. “Let’s hear–”

Albert’s hands shot out and gripped the sheriff’s shirt before he could finish his sentence and he slammed him against the bars, using all the strength he had to create the biggest impact. A loud _clang_ reverberated through the room as Sheriff Pike’s head connected with the unforgiving metal, and when Albert let go, he dropped to the floor, unresponsive.

“Good Lord,” Albert whispered, his heart beating erratically from the adrenaline. The sheriff was unnervingly still.

“Jesus, Mason, I didn’t know you had it in you,” said Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely reviews, they always make my day!


	15. Blackwater IV

Albert’s head snapped up to the other cell, his eyes wide, “You were awake?”

Arthur was propped up on his elbows, looking at him with both eyebrows raised. “’Course I was. That sheriff was making a hell of a racket comin’ in here. Least the deputy was considerate about being quiet.” As Albert continued to stare at the unconscious man, Arthur spoke again. “Well come on,” he encouraged. “Ain’t got time to reflect on your skewed moral compass now.”

“Arthur!”

“Quickly, Mason.” He sat up fully, wincing slightly but moving with a trickle of energy that had been lacking since yesterday. “You gettin’ his keys, or are you gonna try lockpickin’ again?”

“Very funny. Alright, hold on.” He crouched and reached for the sheriff’s belt, glad to be using his arms again and not having to force them behind his back. Thankfully the belt was within his reach, and while his fingers fumbled with the key ring for a couple of minutes, he soon had them free. His hands shook with anticipation and nervousness as he jammed one of the keys into the lock, and when the door opened with a resounding _click_ , Albert wanted to break down into tears there and then.

They were free.

He crossed the short distance to the other cell, finding the right key and eventually opening that door, too. He stepped inside, blushing at Arthur’s small smile as he drew closer.

“Come on,” he said, draping Arthur’s arm over his shoulder. They stood slowly, the outlaw subconsciously guarding his side with his free hand, muffling his groans as they edged out of the cell.

“They were fools to – _ah_ – underestimate ya,” Arthur gasped, his breathing picking up.

“We’re not out yet,” said Albert as he propped him against the deputy’s desk. “Stay there a moment, I’ll fetch your things.” He’d watched Milton dump Arthur’s satchel and weapons in a trunk behind Sheriff Pike’s desk and so he stepped over to it and crouched. As Arthur caught his breath, Albert paused with his hand on the lid, thinking.

“What?” Arthur asked, noticing.

“Perhaps I should, um…” Albert trailed off before quickly moving over to where the sheriff still lay. He grabbed the man under his arms and dragged him into his now unoccupied cell, gently lowering his head onto the stone. The side of his face was already starting to bruise from where it had impacted the bars, and Albert bit his lip when he saw blood matted in his hair. For peace of mind, he pressed his fingers to the sheriff’s neck, releasing a sigh of relief when he felt a strong pulse.

“Temptin’ fate, Mason, let’s go.”

“Right, yes.” Albert scrambled out of the cell and locked it behind him, dropping the keys on the desk as he returned to the trunk. He lifted the lid and had one hand on Arthur’s belongings when he heard the back door open. He moved without thinking, spinning around and pointing one of Arthur’s revolvers at the new arrival.

It was the postman he’d seen yesterday morning, holding his hands up and watching him, wide-eyed. He looked across the room and when his gaze landed on the unconscious sheriff, he paled.

“Did you kill him?” he asked slowly.

“Close the door,” Albert whispered. The postman regarded him for a moment before complying, turning and shutting the door loudly. Leaning on the desk between the two men, Arthur focused on Albert, his expression wary.

“Get in the other cell.”

“I’m just doin’ my job, mister,” the postman uttered, his hands still raised. “Let me on my way and I won’t tell nobody.”

“No, no, get in the cell.” Albert insisted, his voice rising. He rose from where the desk had partially concealed him, the gun still aimed at the other man.

“Mason,” Arthur warned lowly, looking concerned.

“Get in the cell!” he shouted, his breathing speeding up as he drew his other hand to the revolver to steady his aim. “Please.”

“Alright, alright. I’m goin’.” The postman shuffled across the room, never taking his eyes off Albert. He backed into the cell, looking between Albert and Arthur. “It’s startin’ to get busy out there,” he said, keeping his voice even. “People are wakin’ up.”

“Give me your jacket.” Albert said suddenly.

“What?” the man asked, bewildered.

“Your jacket! Take it off!”

“Uh, okay. Okay, I’m takin’ it off.”

“Mason,” Arthur spoke up, “I think you should give me that.” He held a hand out, gesturing for the gun.

“No, I need it to–”

“Anything you intend to do is gonna end up a whole lot worse if you really do pull that trigger,” he said firmly. “Even in the state I’m in, I can handle it better than you.”

Albert shot him a baffled look. He lowered his voice. “Arthur, I would never–”

“I know you wouldn’t. I’m just ensuring that.” His hand remained out, and after a moment spent deliberating, Albert passed the revolver to him, instantly feeling lighter without it. He’d had no intention of shooting the postman, but Arthur was right; even if it wasn’t his intent, the situation would go from bad to worse once a shot was fired.

“My jacket?” The postman was offering the navy item, dressed now in an undershirt. Albert darted forward and took it from him, pausing near him.

“And your hat.”

“Want my shoes to go with that?” he grumbled, snatching the cap from his head and handing it over. Albert ignored him, tossing the jacket and cap to Arthur with one hand as he fumbled with the jail keys with the other.

“Put those on.” He locked the door and shot the postman an apologetic look. “Someone will be by to let you out eventually,” he said.

“Hopefully not any time soon,” Arthur muttered, his tone absent-minded as he slowly drew the jacket over his arms, trying to limit his movement. Albert returned to the trunk and began gathering Arthur’s things.

“Wait, you ain’t wearing the sheriff’s uniform?” Arthur asked.

“It’s your face on the wanted posters. You’re more recognizable. I’ll change… later,” Albert said vaguely, not actually knowing when he’d get the chance to. He looped the satchel over the outlaw’s shoulder, helping it past his arm.

“I’ll take your belt,” he said, fastening the belt around his waist and taking the revolver back from Arthur to put it in one of the holsters. “People will notice a postman carrying guns.”

“Why would they? It’s a dangerous business,” murmured the postman from the cell.

Albert looked down at Arthur’s hat he was holding. Arthur was already wearing the cap and so he made an executive decision and placed it on his own head. Arthur cocked a brow.

“Not enough hands to carry it if I’m helping you,” Albert explained.

“What happened to yours?”

“I lost it when Milton arrested us.” He slipped under Arthur’s arm again, taking some of his weight. “Ready?”

“What’s the plan?” Arthur asked, biting his lip as they hobbled towards the door. Albert strained under his weight but he dared not slow down, his frazzled nerves and racing thoughts preventing him from doing so even if he wanted to.

“Can you get the door?” Arthur complied and leaned forward to shove it open. He gasped at the movement, a hand ghosting over his worse injuries.

“Less dramatically, next time?” Albert commented, stopping to let the other man regain composure. “You were literally operated on yesterday.”

“M’fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he growled.

“I’m just saying, take it easy. Or, as easy as you can for the moment. I’m aware jail-breaks aren’t exactly a breezy thing.”

“Let’s just go.”

They stepped through the doorway and into bright daylight. A few people walked the streets, thankfully paying no attention to the supposed postman propped up by an unfamiliar stranger.

“The wagon. Should be nearby.” Albert said hurriedly, leading Arthur to the road. He remembered the postman complaining about having to leave his wagon obstructing the way while he waited for the sheriff. Looking up and down the street he couldn’t see anything, so he squeezed Arthur’s arm and tugged him left.

“It must be around the corner.”

“Mason,” Arthur gasped as they headed towards the corner. “Maybe you were right.”

“There’s no _maybe_ about it,” he commented. He patted Arthur’s waist. “It won’t be far.”

“Need to sit down.”

“You can, you can. I just need to find that blasted…” As they rounded the corner his eyes fell upon it. The wagon was down the road, sacks of letters and parcels visible in the back.

Stood between it and them, however, was Deputy Westworth, frozen at the sight of them.

Arthur’s head was dipping, his body sagging against Albert’s as he fought to remain upright. Albert hardly noticed, though, he was too busy staring at Westworth, a cold rush of fear trickling down his spine.

Westworth reacted first; he drew his revolver and levelled it at Albert, his blue eyes darting between the two of them.

“Where’s the sheriff?” he demanded to know, his tone betraying his worry.

“In the jail.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.” Did he look like the kind of man who killed people? That was two who’d asked him that now. He supposed he was wearing Arthur’s gun belt. “He’s alive.”

“Alright. Well, put your hands up.”

“Deputy–”

“Put your hands up!”

Albert’s heart was hammering against his ribcage. They were so close. He wasn’t going to let Arthur go back to that cell, just to wait for him to be hanged.

“I can’t do that,” he whispered. “Let us past.” Arthur’s hand slipped from his where it was draped around his shoulder, and he felt his fingers ghost down his back and rest on the gun belt.

“You got nowhere to go,” Westworth said. “Agent Milton’s on his way. That’s why I was comin’ back before you…”

“He’s here?” Albert asked, his mouth going dry at the thought of Milton finding them. “I – I thought he wasn’t due back until tomorrow?”

“I ain’t here to chat!” Westworth snapped. “Now put your hands up!” He pulled back the hammer of the gun, shifting on his feet.

Albert could tell Arthur was trying to grab his revolver from its holster, but he knocked his hand back. Starting a gunfight in the middle of Blackwater was _not_ going to be beneficial to their escape.

“I can’t do that without letting go of Arthur, and I’m _not_ letting go of Arthur,” Albert said, softly but with a determined edge.

“Then – then I’ll shoot you!”

Albert swallowed, licking his parched lips. “Alright,” he said. “Shoot me.”

“Mason,” Arthur whispered. “Keep still.”

“Shoot me,” he repeated, his voice strengthening. “I’ll be dead soon anyway. If not here, then after a couple of months in Sisika Penitentiary.” He tightened his grip on Arthur, gripping his arm and draping it back over his shoulder so the other man couldn’t reach the revolver. The outlaw made a noise of protest, but he was so tired and shaky he could do little to fight back.

“And when they bury me,” he continued, glaring at Westworth. “You make sure to tell them who I really am so they can put me up there on that hill.”

Westworth paled. He took a moment to glance around them, his gaze flickering to the jail before lingering on Arthur’s weak form. “Were you tellin’ the truth? Last night?”

“Yes,” Albert said, even as he was unsure as to what Westworth was talking about. The deputy was still looking Arthur up and down, seeming hesitant, and Albert pushed forward, taking a gamble as to what the young man was thinking. It appeared no one around here had forgotten about the massacre.

“He wasn’t there,” he reiterated, ignoring the way his voice cracked as he pleaded. “It’s Van der Linde’s head this town deserves, not Arthur’s. He’s innocent.” _Here, at least_ , he added internally.

Westworth’s resolve cracked. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, and he holstered his gun and marched towards them. Albert stumbled away, alarmed, balancing Arthur precariously against him as the outlaw staggered too, but Westworth didn’t slow his pace as he grabbed Arthur’s other arm and took some of his weight.

“The Pinkertons are comin’ from Strawberry,” he explained as they carried Arthur towards the wagon. “Your best bet is to go west as soon as you cross the river. Get rid of the wagon as soon as you can.”

“Okay,” Albert said, breathless. He was still processing Westworth’s change in attitude. He had hoped the deputy would change his mind, but the doubtful, paranoid part of his brain had succeeded in convincing him he was fooling himself.

They made it to the wagon and Westworth helped lift Arthur into the back. Albert climbed up behind him and helped him shuffle to the back until he was leaning against the aged wood. The wagon was jolted suddenly, and Albert looked up to see Westworth clambering up in front, gathering the horses’ reins.

“Stay down,” he called. “I’m gonna get you two out of town.”

Albert wanted to protest, to tell Westworth he could get them out on his own, but he wasn’t given the opportunity. The deputy snapped the reins and the horses began trotting along the cobbled street, and Albert shifted down next to Arthur. He arranged the brown sacks of letters and parcels around them until he was satisfied that they were more or less hidden, and it was then he allowed himself to calm down.

“What did you mean? ‘Bout bein’ buried on a hill?” Arthur whispered, his eyes struggling to track him. Albert pulled him closer, and Arthur dropped his head onto his shoulder, settling with a huff.

“Hush,” Albert murmured. “Focus on resting. You’re going to be alright.” He laced his fingers through Arthur’s and squeezed, hoping to convey assurance.

“Ain’t me I’m worried about,” came the faint reply, and Albert smiled.

“You should be. Let me see?”

“S’fine. I’ll tell ya if it’s bad.”

“It’s already bad. I need you to tell me if it gets _worse_.”

“Sure,” he muttered. He squeezed their hands as his eyes slipped closed, and Albert found himself feeling grateful for the contact as Arthur fell asleep. They rattled wildly along the dirt path out of Blackwater, Westworth pushing the horses faster and faster. Albert clutched Arthur’s hat and prayed the Pinkertons wouldn’t cross their path. He was indebted to Westworth for agreeing to help, however reluctantly. He doubted he’d have gotten Arthur very far away from the town on his own. They probably would have been shot in the back as they ran.

Westworth twisted in his seat. “Stay down,” he repeated. “You can see for miles across these plains. I don’t want no one getting suspicious.”

“Perhaps you should slow down then,” Albert replied as they clattered over a bump in the road.

“There’re only so many precautions we can take, Mr. Mason.”

While he was pleased to regain his formal title, Albert couldn’t help worrying that a cart speeding over the vast plains might draw unwanted attention.

“You know, you ain’t as cunnin’ as you think you are,” Westworth commented, his voice raised over the rattling wheels.

Albert frowned. “I don’t think I’m at all cunning.”

“I saw what you did. To the rope.”

“To the… oh.” The deputy _had_ seen, then. He knew he’d gotten free from his restraints. And yet…

“Why didn’t you…?”

Westworth shrugged, his eyes back on the road. “You weren’t gonna get very far even if your hands were free. You surprised me a little, I guess. I reckon Sheriff Pike underestimated you.”

“I think I got relatively far.”

The deputy was silent for a moment. “That you did,” he conceded eventually. He sniffed. “I’ll take ya to Riggs Station. You’ll be on your own from there.”

“You’ve done more than enough. Thank you,” Albert answered.

“Don’t see I had much choice,” Westworth muttered to himself, but Albert caught it.

“You could have arrested us.”

The deputy sighed. “No, I couldn’t.”

Albert fell silent, getting the sense that Westworth didn’t want to speak with him anymore. He cast his eye over Arthur as they continued away from Blackwater, noting that his pale complexion hadn’t abated and his breaths were coming in short bursts. A faint frown was etched on his face, an indicator of the pain he was in even as he slept. Albert didn’t know how to fix it, he didn’t know what the long-term solution was going to be. They get on a train and then what? Go to Saint Denis? Go further north? Albert didn’t know this country as well as he wanted to; Saint Denis was the only place he was intimately familiar with. Perhaps he could hide Arthur in some rooms as they waited for the heat to die down. There he could send for a doctor and try to forget this entire mess.

“Shit!”

“What?” Albert peeked over the edge of the wagon, yelping when the horses put on a burst of speed and began galloping furiously towards the Upper Montana River.

“Keep your head down!” Westworth shouted as a bullet burst through the wood of the driver’s bench. It missed the deputy but spooked the horses, and they neighed and whinnied as he forced them faster. As they flew downhill towards the shallow stream Albert was greeted with the view of three men on horseback behind them, and at the sight of a familiar bowler hat, his blood ran cold and he gripped Arthur’s hand tighter.

The Pinkertons had found them.


	16. West Elizabeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One recommendation while reading this chapter: find the original soundtrack for RDR2 and listen to 'The Disaster'. It definitely helped set to tone when I was writing this :D
> 
> As usual, thank you all for the lovely reviews! More soon!

Another bullet struck the wagon, coursing through one of the parcel sacks, and Albert instinctively flinched away from it. Westworth continued to drive the horses on and Albert could hear him panicking. They sped through the water as they crossed the border into West Elizabeth, bullets and shouts following their tracks. Westworth was cursing, his voice high and wavering, his grip on the reins tight. Albert shuffled away from Arthur, making sure he was lying flat in the wagon, and clambered over the driver’s bench, landing awkwardly next to the young deputy.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Westworth shouted, his eyes wide and tone loud over the clattering of hooves.

“How far are we from the station?” Albert asked, surprised to find his voice croaky and barely present. He licked his lips and tried to vanish his dry mouth.

“What?”

“The station, Deputy, how far away is it?” He was deliberately portraying a calm demeanor, having guessed that Westworth didn’t cope well under pressure – an undesirable trait for a member of law enforcement, Albert noted – and so he was trying valiantly to stem the wave of panic by staying cool, even though he wanted nothing more than to cower in the back of the wagon with Arthur.

“It’s, uh, it’s about a mile. Train’s gonna go any minute now.”

“Alright,” he said. “Do you have a knife?”

“A _knife_?”

“We need to detach the horses. The wagon’s too slow.”

“I dunno if you’ve noticed, but _we’re being shot at_!”

“Yes, and we _will_ be shot if we don’t get away. We’ll be faster on horseback.”

“And how exactly do you intend to–”

“Wait wait wait, I’ve got Arthur’s,” he realized, finding the hunting knife attached to Arthur’s gun belt around his waist. He held the large blade up, nodding.

“This should do it. Here,” He offered it to Westworth. “I’ll take the reins while you do it. I need to wake Arthur.” He was amazed the outlaw hadn’t stirred at the sound of gunfire; it went to show how deeply exhausted he really was.

“Hey.” He leaned over the bench as Westworth began hacking at the leather restraints. One hand gripping the reins, he used the other to nudge Arthur’s shoulder. “Wake up, Arthur, come on.”

Arthur grunted, frowning and rolling onto his back. His eyes cracked open, screwing shut as they careened over a small hill.

“What–?” he began, but he was cut off by more bullets peppering the driver’s bench. Albert yelped and ducked down, putting a hand on Westworth to keep him low.

“Deputy Westworth, stop this wagon now!” Milton’s unmistakeable voice rang over the frenetic sounds of horses, cold and furious.

“Aw, shit,” Westworth said with a wince. “No goin’ back now.”

“Mason?” At the sound of Milton behind them, Arthur had sat bolt upright, and he was peering over the bench with wide eyes. “What the hell–?”

“Stay down, stay down!” Albert exclaimed, pushing him downwards. “The Pinkertons have caught up, I’m afraid. We’re trying to free the horses so we can get away from them.”

“Horses?” he repeated, dazed.

“We’ll reach the train faster that way,” Albert explained, aware that Arthur was very likely not taking much information in.

“Hey, we ain’t got much time!” Westworth was holding onto a leather strap, the knife hovering above it. It was the only thing left connecting one of the horses to the wagon, making the cart shudder wildly. Albert squeezed Arthur’s shoulder.

“Gather your strength. I’ll need you to jump to the horse in a moment.” Ignoring Arthur’s bemused expression, Albert turned to Westworth. He took the reins. “Alright, you can cut it now.”

“No, no. You gotta get on him first.”

“I – what?”

“This was your bright idea, weren’t it? How did you plan on getting on? Slowing down?”

“Um…” Truth be told, his thoughts were barely ahead of his actions. His _bright idea_ was not getting shot; everything else he thought of was merely circumstantial.

“Jump, Mason, c’mon!”

Refusing to think about it a moment longer lest he change his mind, Albert leapt off the wagon, landing hard on the horse’s back. He clutched at its mane as he struggled to regain his balance, and when he felt stable enough he sat up and gathered the reins. Behind him, Westworth was already sawing at the leather strap. The knife jerked one last time and then Albert was free. The wagon began slowing, the horse that was still attached struggling to carry the weight, and Westworth immediately set to work on the other straps.

Albert, meanwhile, was busy dodging bullets. He nudged his horse around the side of the wagon, riding alongside it. He could still hear the shouts of Milton and his Pinkertons behind them, and each time a shot was fired his heart missed a beat.

“Arthur!” he called, “Quickly!”

Arthur clutched the side of the wagon and hauled himself up, the determination in his eyes fierce even as his body operated sluggishly. Albert tried to match the speed of the wagon, keeping the horse as steady as possible while the outlaw readied himself. He lifted a boot onto the edge and when he glanced at Albert, the photographer nodded. Arthur launched himself across the gap and landed heavily behind Albert. The horse whinnied in alarm as Albert hastily grabbed Arthur’s shirt to keep him on. Arthur swung his leg over and gripped Albert’s waist, breathing fast.

“Go, go!” Westworth shouted, waving his arms at them. Albert needed no further encouragement. He spurred the horse on, the stallion gaining speed instantly and racing past the wagon. He looked behind him, relief flooding him as he watched the deputy jump onto his own horse and get free of the wagon. It shuddered and skidded to a stop, making the Pinkertons swerve around it.

Albert patted Arthur’s hand. “Alright?” he called.

“Uh,” Arthur gasped, “You know you told me to say when things got worse?”

“Yes?” he replied nervously.

Arthur brought one of his hands into Albert’s line of sight. It was covered in blood.

“It’s worse.”

“Christ,” he said to himself. “Your stitches?”

“Yeah. Think I tore ‘em.”

“Ok. Ok. Just… um, keep calm.”

“Pretty hard to do that with Pinkertons behind us, Mason.”

“I know, I–” He was cut off by another gunshot, and when he heard a sharp cry, he thought for one heart-stopping moment that Arthur had been hit. Equally worrying, though – as his head snapped round – was the sight of Westworth clutching his shoulder. His horse panicked and bucked and the deputy was thrown clear of it, shouting as he hit the dirt. Albert subconsciously tugged on the reins, desperately wanting to interfere as an agent slowed next to Westworth, aiming his gun as a warning, but the feeling of Arthur slouched against his back had him nudging his horse faster instead. He felt rotten leaving the deputy behind, but Arthur’s safety was his only concern. 

Arthur seemed to be thinking the same thing. His head was also turned in Westworth’s direction, a conflicted expression on his face. “We gotta go,” he said faintly. Two Pinkertons, Milton included, were still chasing them, drawing ever nearer.

“I know, I know!” Albert cried. Panic was settling in fully now that they were on their own, even though that was the very thing he had been striving for for the past two days. “Train’s not far.”

He felt Arthur squeeze his waist. “You’ll get us there.”

“I don’t know how I’ll get us _on_ ,” he muttered to himself. It was looking more and more likely that they’d have to bypass the train entirely. If it was just sitting at the station then the agents were hardly going to let them purchase tickets and find some seats. Their best bet currently seemed to be to continue racing through West Elizabeth, but the longer they stayed on horseback, the more scared Albert grew.

Milton wasn’t going to give up. But then again, neither was he.  

They broke through a cluster of trees and suddenly Riggs Station was in sight. The train, however, was not.

“Um,” Albert said.

Not risking slowing down, he skidded right and spurred the horse along the tracks as he tried to think what to do.

“Arthur,” he called. “The train’s not there.”

“Mmm?” He hummed faintly, and Albert could feel his head dipping against his shoulder.

“Arthur! There’s no train!”

“What… what’s time?”

“Time?” Albert repeated, his voice shrill. “How should I know?”

“S’early, right?”

“Early? Yes, yes, it’s early. It’s still chilly.” Catching on to Arthur’s train of thought, he saw a sliver of hope in their future as he realized, “It’s only just left.”

“Then catch up.”

“Right,” he said, suddenly breathless at the thought of what they were going to do. “Catch up.”

He whipped the reins and the horse neighed in response, pushed as fast as it could go. Its hooves clattered along the metal tracks as they raced after the train, and Albert was so preoccupied with all the things that could go wrong soon that his mind was taken off of the Pinkertons. Several bullets pinging off the tracks and hitting the dirt around them soon reminded him of the stakes, though.

“Mason!” he heard Milton shout. “Stop right now or I _will_ kill you!”

“Not if I kill you first, you bastard,” Arthur growled, his voice hoarse. One arm looping around Albert’s middle, he twisted, raised his revolver and fired. The shot went wild.

“Can’t hardly see straight,” he cursed, ignoring Albert’s concerned, “ _What?!_ ” and choosing to just fire aimlessly. It worked in causing the two agents to jerk their reins to avoid getting shot.

As they rounded a corner Albert finally saw the train ahead, plumes of black smoke swirling into the air as it charged along the rails.

“Keep going!” Arthur yelled.

“What do you think I’m doing?!”

Galloping quicker than Albert had ever experienced, the horse edged closer and closer to the end carriage. He had a death grip on the reins, his palms sweaty and shaking, and around his waist he could feel Arthur’s tense arm as he continued shooting. This was the craziest situation he’d ever been in, and if they made it out of there alive he was hanging up his camera and retiring to California.

 _Well_ … there would still be beautiful creatures to photograph in California. And he imagined Arthur would enjoy the warm climate–

He cut that thought off as quickly as it originated, refusing to imagine any kind of retirement plans while they were chasing a train and dodging bullets. The train in question was almost within reach, the sound of the loud rattle of the wheels against the tracks clanging around Albert’s ears.

“Can’t get on at the end!” Arthur called over the cacophonous noise. “We’ll get shot in the back as soon as we try. Move up a little and we’ll jump across.”

“A very sound plan, Arthur, but…” His eyes had drifted ahead of him, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he saw what was coming. “It’s about to cross a very long bridge.”

Arthur turned, looking over Albert’s shoulder. “Well then,” he said, clearing his throat. “Better hurry up.” His words were cool, but the arm that tightened around Albert’s waist revealed he was anything but.

They had no choice. Getting on that train was their only way out of that mess. Go anywhere else and Milton would eventually catch up and kill them. A new surge of determination coursing through him, Albert encouraged his horse onwards.

He’d forgotten that most trains had guards stationed throughout the carriages. As their intentions became clear, Albert saw a guard shouting at them, although he couldn’t hear a word he was saying over the sound of the train. The guard gestured at them to get away, and when Albert ignored him, he raised his rifle in warning.

Albert knew he had one of Arthur’s revolvers stored on his gun belt, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it, just as he knew he’d never have been able to shoot the postman who came upon them in the jail, or Deputy Westworth – despite the numerous threats to do so. He wasn’t a killer, he was a pacifist.

He was going to get shot in the chest because of it.

“Arthur!” he called desperately, and the outlaw turned towards him upon hearing the panic in his voice. He locked eyes with the guard and didn’t hesitate, raising his revolver and firing two shots, both bullets hitting their mark and sending the man slumping sideways off the train.

“Outta bullets,” he groused, reaching around for his other gun. Albert couldn’t reply. His eyes were focused on the next carriage, biting down on his lip until he felt a tang of blood in his mouth. What a wretched man he was. How hypocritical of him, to refuse to kill a man but ask someone else to do it instead.

“ _Mason_ ,” Arthur snapped, and Albert broke from his morbid thoughts, the inflection in Arthur’s tone making it apparent that hadn’t been the first time he’d called his name. “Get us closer.”

Albert complied, nudging the horse nearer the black carriages as they continued along the train. He was a little surprised at the sudden verve that possessed Arthur, but he supposed high stress situations like theirs awakened some survival instinct that kept one alert and prepared. That’s how he was feeling, at any rate.

The train was almost at the bridge that covered Bard’s Crossing, the sickeningly long drop below making the strongest of men pale at the height. Albert absolutely was not letting them get this far only for them to fall to their deaths. They finally reached an open carriage, one carrying boxes and chests and with a railing low enough for them to conceivably jump to.

“Ready?” he called, mouth dry and heart pumping. He felt a sudden weight removed from his head, and he chanced a glance around with a confused frown to see that Arthur had removed his own hat from his head and was putting it on his.

“Am now,” he said with a lop-sided smile, though it was more strained than the ones Albert cherished.

“You first. Come on.” Arthur nodded and held onto Albert’s shoulders as he lifted one foot onto the horse’s rear and readied himself. Before Albert could say anything else he let go and jumped, slamming onto the wooden flooring with a muffled groan but nevertheless _on the train_. Albert couldn’t stop a relieved smile from forming, but it dropped pretty quickly at the realization that it was now his turn.

Arthur was up and kneeling over the railing, one hand extended. “Now, Mason!” he shouted. “Don’t think about it!”

“Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it,” he gasped as he slid one foot from the stirrups and knelt awkwardly on the saddle. The horse was slowing, unsure what its foreign rider was doing, and Albert didn’t dare waste another moment. He hurled himself across the seemingly enormous gap, his ribs protesting loudly when he collided with the railing. His hands grappled with the floor as he slid backwards but before he could lose his footing Arthur was there – as he always was whenever he needed him – grabbing his arms and pulling him up and over the railing. They were on the train. They were safe.


	17. Bard's Crossing

They tumbled onto the floor of the train carriage in a heap of limbs, and as soon as Albert was coherent enough to realize he was on top of Arthur, he rolled off, mindful of the various injuries adorning the outlaw.

“Alright?” he panted, sitting up and fighting for breath. The scenery around them changed in a snap, going from green trees to blue sky as the train began to cross the bridge. A moment later and they would have been too late in getting on. Wind whipped at his hair and tore through his thin clothes but he paid it no mind, focused instead on the man lying next to him.

“Just fine,” he answered, his breathing equally heavy. As Albert’s eyes fell to Arthur’s shirt, he became aware of how _not fine_ Arthur really was. Blood had seeped through his bandages covering the torn stitches and was staining his shirt, and the coppery smell overwhelmed his senses. He bit his lip and found himself reaching for Arthur’s hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” Arthur groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

“I led Milton right to you–”

“Mason. Shut the hell up.” He sat up to face Albert, a deep frown on his face. He let go of their hands in order to grip the photographer’s arms. “Don’t you ever apologize for this. He’s after me; I shoulda never risked you like I have. I shoulda stayed away.”

“No, no, Arthur. I’m glad you didn’t, really.” He offered a small smile, aware of how silly he sounded when he was covered in cuts and bruises and Arthur was bleeding out. “Life is awfully dreary when you aren’t around.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, his eyes drifting away from Albert. “I can’t imagine this is the kind of excitement you’re after.”

They were falling back into their playful banter, and while Albert had spent the past two days longing to engage in it again, he also knew that this was familiar territory. This was _safe_ for them. He wondered if Arthur ever thought about testing the boundaries, about venturing into unsafe territory. He certainly had.

And he’d found that if there was one thing heart-stopping horseback chases did well, it was force him to re-evaluate the decisions he’d made in the past. Or rather, the decisions he _hadn’t_ made.

“Arthur,” he began, drawing those bright eyes to him. “Call me a fool, but I don’t want to be anywhere else but here with you.”

Arthur’s mouth parted, his brows rising. He blinked a couple of times and it was as if Albert could see the gears in his mind malfunctioning, his ability to speak breaking down.

“I’ll say it for you: I’m a fool!” Albert said hurriedly, laughing nervously. The silence had gone on too long, and for a second he considered throwing himself off the train so that he didn’t have to look at Arthur’s surprised expression anymore.

The grip on his arms tightened. “Mason, I–” He suddenly looked over Albert’s shoulder, something drawing his attention, and his eyes widened as he inhaled sharply. “Get down!”

He pushed Albert against the floor as bullets sprayed the wooden crates behind them.

“Fuckin' _Milton!_ ” Arthur yelled, fury clear in his tone.

“They must have gotten on at the end,” Albert said, ducking closer to Arthur as more shots were fired. They were lucky they had been sat next to some other boxes: for now at least, they weren’t exposed. “What do we do?”

Arthur looked behind them, his eyes darting wildly. “I’m gonna cover you. You’re gonna go up.” He pointed at the ladder attached to the exterior of the next carriage, leading to the roof.

“Are you _insane_?” Albert shouted.

“We can’t go _through_ ; people will get in the way.”

“What about you?”

“You got a gun, dontcha? You shoot at ‘em while I climb up.”

“I can’t – I can’t _shoot them_!”

“You were gonna shoot Westworth! You were gonna shoot a _postman_!”

“I was bluffing!” he cried, fear rising up his throat and feeling as if it was suffocating him. “I can’t – Arthur I’ve never killed anyone before!”

“Then just shoot _at_ ‘em!” he replied, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Christ Mason, you really are a fool!” He peered over the edge of the box, oblivious to Albert’s stung expression. “You ain’t gotta kill anyone,” he continued, lowering himself back down. “Just make sure they can’t fire.”

“Alright,” he said, subdued. “Ready?”

“Go!” He jerked upright and began firing as Albert took off towards the ladder, scrambling up the rungs as quickly as possible, horribly aware that his back was now an incredibly easy target. He clambered onto the roof, hair whipping wildly now that he was higher up, and he tried to ignore the nauseating pit in his stomach that formed when he saw how utterly far away the ground was. He withdrew one of Arthur’s guns from the belt and as soon as Arthur ducked down behind the boxes, he started to shoot.

From his vantage point, he could finally see where exactly Milton was. He and the other agent, who Albert couldn’t see fully, were inside the carriage behind, using either side of the open doorway as cover. Milton had a murderous glint in his eye as he watched Arthur run to the ladder but Albert refused to let him get a shot in. He clutched the pistol with both hands as he fired at the door, the bullets pinging off the metal exterior. The recoil of the weapon hurt his hands but he tried not to let it affect him. If Arthur and those agents could wield guns, then so could he.

Arthur’s head appeared over the lip of the roof, and Albert offered a hand as he hauled himself up, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Let’s go!” Arthur shouted, ducking slightly at the bullets that followed them. It was a miracle neither of them had been hit yet. Someone Up There was clearly watching them in amusement and doing what They could to prolong their ridiculous situation.

Arthur grabbed his hand and they wobbled along the roof of the train. Albert fumbled with the gun in his grip, slipping it back into a holster so he could have more balance.

“What’s the plan?” he said loudly, coughing as smoke billowed around them.

“Get to the front.”

“And then?”

“Uh, haven’t got that far yet.”

“Arthur–”

“Just keep going. They’re gonna catch up any minute now.”

They got to the edge and Arthur didn’t give him a chance to worry about crossing the gap. He leapt and pulled Albert with him, the pair of them stumbling slightly but on the next carriage regardless. Albert swayed and concentrated on keeping his footing, thankful for Arthur’s firm grip on his hand.

“Move!” Arthur bellowed, suddenly tugging him behind him and raising his revolver. Milton and his agent had gotten onto the roof, their weapons aimed at them. Arthur continued backwards as he fired. Albert, meanwhile, hadn’t had the chance to fully regain his balance from their jump, and when Arthur pulled him out of the way he stumbled and fell, yelping as he rolled and slid towards the side of the carriage. His hands caught an elevated part of the roof and he clung on, violently aware of how his feet were dangling over the edge.

“Mason?” Arthur called, unable to look his way as he continued shooting. It would have been impossible for him not to have heard Albert fall.

“I’m fine!” he reassured, not wanting the outlaw to get distracted. He got his knees under him and began to get back up. “I’m–”

Many more shots were fired from Arthur and the Pinkertons, and while most sailed through the air around them, one finally found a mark. Albert saw Milton clutch his arm and drop his gun, lurching from the impact. Blood spewed from between his fingers and the agent snapped something to his partner, no doubt urging him on. The other man started running towards them.

What Albert realized simultaneously, was that it wasn’t just one bullet that had found its target.

As Milton reeled from his injury, Arthur shouted in pain as one of his legs buckled, forcing him to one knee. His hand was pressed to his thigh, and fear began to consume Albert as the outlaw swayed sideways.

“Arthur!” he cried, pulling himself to his feet. He was aware of the agent getting closer to them but his thoughts were fully consumed by reaching Arthur. He got there first and gripped Arthur’s shoulders, keeping him upright.

“Goddamn bastard,” the outlaw said through gritted teeth.

“Come on, Arthur, quickly.” Albert pulled his arm around his shoulders and forced Arthur to his feet, grimacing under the weight. With his free hand he took the pistol and fired at the oncoming agent. He jumped across the gap and was stalking closer, and in this proximity Albert could finally see that it was Agent Daniels, one of the men who had been there to arrest he and Arthur. Albert distinctly remembered kneeing him in the crotch and he had a sinking feeling that Daniels remembered that too.

“Ain’t nowhere to go,” Daniels said, his face twisted in anger as he pointed his gun at them. “And I won’t hesitate in shootin’ ya both–” He looked at Arthur– “Again.”

It was incredibly unlikely that this man would have a change of heart like Deputy Westworth did, but Albert was out of options.

“Please,” he croaked, his gaze flickering to Milton coming up to them. “We–”

Daniels pointed his gun at their feet and fired. The bullet ricocheted off the metal next to Albert, and he flinched. Arthur jumped, too, unintentionally pulling them towards the side of the carriage.

“You’re well past negotiatin’,” the agent snarled. Albert couldn’t help nudging he and Arthur backwards, his subconscious trying to get him to put some distance between them and this stranger, but Daniels followed him. “But if you hand Morgan over, we won’t kill ya. Yet.”

“Mason,” Arthur muttered as Daniels spoke. His head was turned as he looked at something over the lip of the roof. By now the train had crossed the bridge, and green scenery raced past them in a blur. “You trust me, dontcha?”

“Arthur?” he questioned, gaze firmly fixed on the gun aimed at them.

“Hey!” Daniels shouted. “Enough talkin’! Hands up!”

Arthur slowly withdrew his arm from around Albert’s shoulders. He raised his hands, and Albert followed suit.

The outlaw glanced at him. He whispered, “Jump on three.”

“ _What_?” he hissed.

“One.” Daniels gradually drew closer, clearly expecting some sort of trick.

“Two.”

His gun was unwaveringly pointed at Arthur’s chest, his eyes flickering between the two of them.

“Three!”

They all acted at the same time. He and Arthur spun and leapt off the train, Albert convinced he was going to succumb to a heart attack before he hit the ground.

He was never given the chance to do either.

He saw Arthur jump ahead of him, but he was not expecting Daniels to surge forwards and latch onto his wrist, yanking him harshly towards him. Arthur disappeared from sight as Albert slammed into the edge of the carriage, ribs screaming once again. He saw Daniels above him, dragging him up, and while half his brain was screeching in fear, the other part was thinking, _Arthur jumped Arthur jumped Arthur jumped he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead_.

A sharp fist connected with his cheek and Albert gasped, breaking from his reverie. Daniels had one foot either side of him, one hand fisted into his shirt while the other hit him.

“ _Albert_!”

It was as if his heart restarted, that voice kicking him into action because if Arthur wasn’t dead, he most certainly wasn’t walking away from that jump unscathed. He may not be walking away at all. Even though Albert had fought so hard to find the train, get on the train, and stay on the train, at that moment he wanted nothing more than to _get off the train_.

He surged upwards, jabbing one hand into Daniels’ throat. The agent choked and reeled away, but Albert didn’t allow him any space. He swung his leg and tripped Daniels, sending the man sprawling backwards. That hypocritical, cowardly part of him had him lunging forward and gripping Daniels’ collar before he could fall off. Satisfied the agent would stay there, Albert scrambled to his feet, ready to follow Arthur off the train, but Daniels twisted to grab Albert’s arm, suddenly tugging him towards him.

“You’re wanted dead or alive, Mason,” he spat, his rancid breath washing over Albert. He was frozen, fear finally taking hold of him and keeping him in place. “And either way, I’m gettin’ a commendation ‘cos of this.” His other hand came up, bruising Albert’s arm.

“Takin’ you in dead will be so much easier, though.”

Albert badly wanted to get off the train, and in a way, Daniels was helping him with that. With a furious snarl, the agent threw him from the roof and he fell backwards, his eyes locked onto Daniels’ heaving form. The world seemed to slow around him as he waited for the inevitable impact with the hard ground. As the train left him behind he could see Milton coming up behind Daniels, looking enraged as he shouted something, one hand holding his injured arm. They became distant figures, and then Albert hit the ground.

It was as if everything he could hear was amplified tenfold as his head smacked the dirt and he rolled, the sound of twigs and leaves whipping at his form deafening him. He couldn’t breathe; the wind had been knocked from him and he heaved in stuttering gasps, coughing and choking into the dirt as he came to a stop. Albert was on his side, his head throbbing painfully and pressed into the ground as he tried to stay as still as he could. Moving was too painful. Breathing was too painful.

Falling unconscious was looking very appealing.

As his heart slowed to a regular rhythm and his eyelids drooped, he heard leaves crunching nearby as quick footsteps approached him and an unfamiliar pair of boots entered his vision. A hand placed itself on his arm and slowly rolled him onto his back. Distantly, Albert registered a spike of pain at the movement, but he was too busy trying to keep his eyes open to pay it any attention.

The stranger knelt, and Albert was just able to make out an older, gray-haired man smiling down at him before his eyes slipped closed.

He'd once read that the last thing to go before a man died was his hearing, and as he drifted away the man's voice echoed through his mind.

“Wasn’t quite the landing we were hoping for, Mr. Mason, but an admirable effort nonetheless.”


	18. Shady Belle

Albert thought he could hear water. It was lapping calmly against whatever space he was in. Was he on a boat? No, as far as his muddled senses could tell, he wasn’t moving, wasn’t rocking. Wherever he was, it was quiet and peaceful. He felt peaceful. He was quite happy drifting back asleep.

Then, in the distance: “Aw, shit!”

He inhaled sharply at the unfamiliar voice, just as someone a little closer shouted, “Bill! Shut the hell up, for Christ’s sake!”

“That’s it, John,” another voice observed dryly from disturbingly nearby. “Yell louder.”

 _That_ voice Albert recognized, although he couldn’t place where from. With some internal effort, he opened his eyes, surprised to see a rotting, wooden roof above him. His gaze darted around his surroundings, and he gradually understood that he appeared to be in some kind of run-down shack, the wooden planks that made the walls broken in some places, the small windows murky and old. He was lying on a makeshift bed formed of three large crates and numerous blankets piled on top to soften them. It was almost comfortable. As his hand drifted down alongside the ‘bed’ he could tell there were _a lot_ of blankets and he wondered who they belonged to.

He must have made a noise as he was waking, because then the voice was speaking.

“Mr. Mason? Can you hear me?” A silhouette crowded his wavering vision, and eventually Albert placed his face.

“Mr…. Matthews?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t mistaken.

“That’s right. Glad to see that bump on your head hasn’t affected your memory.”

Albert smiled faintly. “May be too soon to say,” he muttered. “Where…?”

Hosea Matthews leaned back into the chair he’d pulled next to the makeshift bed, grimacing. “I can’t tell you exactly, I’m afraid, as much as I want to. I was met with some opposition in bringing you here in the first place.”

Albert lifted his head, frowning. “Oh. Don’t let me intrude,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. He struggled to lean on his elbows. “If you’ll just put me on a horse I’ll be out of your way–”

Hosea placed a hand on his shoulder, nudging him back down. “Very funny, Mr. Mason, but you are staying right here until I’m satisfied. Aside from your head, you had some nasty cuts that needed seeing to, and I think you may have fractured your ribs when you fell off the train.”

The train.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, sitting up again and fighting the dizziness. “Arthur! Is he alright? Where–”

“Easy now, it’s alright,” Hosea said, his tone calm. Albert took some solace in it, managing not to panic fully. “He’s fine, I promise. Resting up, like you should be.”

“He was shot in the leg. And his stitches were torn. I think he lost a lot of blood…”

“He did,” Hosea admitted, “It was bad. He caught an infection but as of last night he’s over the worst of it.”

“An infection,” Albert frowned. That didn’t make any sense. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Oh, about three days now. You hit the back of your head pretty hard.”

He had no recollection of it. The last thing he remembered was seeing Arthur jump off the train, and then anything after that was hazy at best.

“Three days,” he whispered, shocked.

“Lucky we showed up when we did. Any longer and I don’t know if Arthur…” he trailed off, and as Albert glanced at him he saw worry in the older man’s expression. He wondered at the relationship between he and Arthur if he was so concerned for him. It was none of Albert’s business, of course, but he was glad that Arthur at least had someone else who cared for him.

“I was trying to get him to Saint Denis,” Albert said, feeling strong enough to sit up properly. Hosea bent over him and helped prop him against the wall, stuffing some pillows behind his back. “It was the only thing I could think of. I thought I could get a doctor to help him. It would have never worked, I imagine.” He huffed a quiet laugh, “Thank goodness you found us.”

Hosea watched him for a moment before getting to his feet. He picked something up from a nearby table and sat back down, offering the item to Albert. It was a newspaper, and the front page read:

_NOTORIOUS OUTLAW FINALLY CAUGHT_

_The infamous Arthur Morgan, known gunman for the Van der Linde gang, was captured last night by Pinkertons, led by Agent Andrew Milton. Agent Milton executed a clever operation that resulted in the arrest of Morgan, and readers will be relieved to know that Morgan is currently being held in Blackwater and is due to be hanged on the 19 th of this month. _

The article went on to list Arthur’s various crimes, but Albert stopped reading when Hosea spoke.

“Now I haven’t the faintest idea about what happened to you two, and I hope you’ll tell me at some point, but what I know from _this_ –” He tapped the paper– “is that the Pinkertons caught up with Arthur, took him to Blackwater where they’d be extra vigilant, and then the day before his hanging, _you_ got him out.”

Hosea was looking at him with a fierce gaze, and Albert felt his cheeks reddening. “Only just,” he offered. “As you’ve seen. It wasn’t without our share of injuries.”

“Albert, you aren’t listening to me,” he said vehemently, and Albert blinked at the use of his first name. Hosea leaned closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “We were coming for Arthur and four of us went to break him out of that jail. You did it _on your own_. I owe you… everything.” His words were kind but Albert couldn’t bring himself to smile. Instead, a pit of nausea swirled in his gut while the other man spoke. Hosea squeezed his shoulder once and settled back into his seat. “We all do,” he added, then a flicker of doubt crossed his features. “That is… me and some others– well you remember John and Charles– but I also brought… Oh to Hell with it,” he said suddenly, rolling his eyes. “You’ve already heard Bill. You’re at our camp, alright?”

“Hosea!” a sharp voice said from just outside.

“What, John, are you gonna tell Dutch?” Hosea said loudly, twisting in his seat to look at the closed door. “If you’re just gonna stand out there listening in, then at least come and say hello to Mr. Mason.”

It was silent for a moment, and then the door creaked open and a young man poked his head in. Albert remembered him from the Annesburg exhibition. “Mr. Mason,” he said with a nod.

“Hello,” he replied, offering a smile. John nodded again and made to leave but he caught Hosea’s eye, and whatever he saw made him clear his throat and look at the ground.

“We – uh – we’re real grateful for what you did,” he muttered. “For Arthur.”

“Oh,” Albert said. “You… you needn’t thank me.”

With a final nod, John slipped from the doorway before Hosea could coax him into doing anything else. Albert heard his footsteps fade as he marched off, and when he glanced at Hosea he saw the other man was grinning.

“No manners, that boy,” he said. “Maybe he didn’t sound grateful but let me tell you, he has only left that spot outside the door to eat, sleep and piss. Waiting for me to give him instructions, I think.”

“Oh,” Albert said again, his mouth dry. “That really wasn’t necessary.”

Hosea shrugged, “Everyone has their own way of showing their thanks. John isn’t a man of words, that’s for sure.”

“You really shouldn’t be thanking me,” he said, his breathing picking up. “It’s as you said: you don’t know what happened, and if you did you wouldn’t let me stay here any longer.”

A small frown creased Hosea’s forehead, and while it was clear to Albert that he wanted to say something, he instead shot the photographer a half smile and got to his feet.

“Don’t tell me then, and instead let me find you some food. Stew should be ready right about now, how does that sound?”

“That sounds wonderful,” he said quietly. He watched Hosea duck out of the door, letting it fall shut behind him, and when he was gone Albert let out a heavy sigh. He wanted to throw up, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his injuries or the intense guilt consuming him. Either way, he needed some air.

Albert struggled to his feet, wobbling slightly from the head-rush. Black spots danced across his vision but he ignored them as he slipped on his boots. Once he struggled to the wooden door, he pushed it open and stepped outside.

He was immediately hit by humid air, and he pulled a face as he looked around. It had been warm in the shack but out here it was much more noticeable, flies buzzing around and insects chirping everywhere. It did nothing to help his nausea, and Albert considered turning and going back inside but he stopped when he finally registered his surroundings.

A bit of a distance away, off to the right of him, was a large plantation house. It was dilapidated and crumbling, but it was impressive nonetheless. Vines were creeping up the wall, festering in the cracks, and some of the windows were broken. It was a gray, aged color, having been battered by time, but Albert dearly wished he knew where his camera was so that he could take a photograph.

To the left of the house were a number of tents set up in a cluster, lopsided and multi-colored with a fire crackling in the middle of it. He could see Hosea’s back as the man ladled something from a large cooking pot into a bowl, and other strangers were stood nearby, drinking from tin cups and chatting to each other.

His heart thudding loudly at the unfamiliar faces, Albert turned around and his eyes finally found the source of water he’d heard when he first woke. The shack he’d been resting in was sitting at the edge of a river, and Albert walked down the boardwalk until he was at the edge and looking out across the large body of water. It was flowing slowly, languidly, as if it too could not stand the heat. He sat down and let his legs dangle over the water, his body grateful for the rest.

As soon as he was feeling well enough, he would leave. While he was uncomfortable being near Dutch Van der Linde’s gang, he also knew he wasn’t deserving of their hospitality. Hosea seemed a kind person, as did the others he had briefly met at the Annesburg exhibition, and that made the guilt worse.  He almost wished they were the ruthless criminals he’d pictured, who would have threatened him for putting one of their own in danger. Instead, a wanted man had been standing outside waiting to help while another was fetching him stew. It was far more than he deserved, and once he could walk in a straight line, he would get out of the way and let Arthur heal with the people who cared for him.

“Not sure you should be sitting that close, you know,” Hosea said, sitting next to him and holding out a bowl. “I’m not fetching you if you fall in.”

Albert smiled, lifting a spoon to his lips. “I shall do my best. But knowing my luck, I make no promises.” He ate a mouthful and instantly felt soothed by the homely feel of the stew. Eating something like that during New York winters always brought him great pleasure, and with a pang of homesickness he realized just how out of place he was, sitting next to a known conman instead of photographing for a city newspaper like he should have been. But then, he’d been unhappy in those offices. He’d never really found anywhere he fit in, the more he thought about it. He only ever seemed to bring unhappiness upon himself, even when he was doing something he enjoyed.

“Ah, come on, Pearson’s cooking isn’t _that_ bad.”

He must have been pulling some morose expression. He instantly perked up, choking slightly on the broth.

“Oh no, this is just what I needed,” he said, taking another mouthful. “Got lost in thought, sorry.”

“Not surprising, considering what you’ve been through,” Hosea replied, looking out across the river as well. “This place has a way of bringing up unwanted thoughts. Not sure if it’s because of the dark history of _that_ –” He jerked a thumb back towards the old house– “Or the dangers that lurk in _there_.” He gestured widely at the swampland that surrounded them. “Everyone’s been on edge lately, and being here certainly isn’t helping.”

“Why are you here then, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Hosea pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, struck a match, and lit one. “Didn’t have much of a choice. Got in a bad spot and had to leave quickly. Arthur knew about this house, and he suggested we lie low here for a while.”

“Oh,” he said, focusing on his stew. He saw Hosea smirk around his cigarette in his periphery.

“I imagine we’re not quite the company you usually associate yourself with.”

“Oh no,” he agreed, quickly swallowing another bite. “You’re all much more polite.”

Hosea laughed, his head titled back and his eyes crinkling. Albert found himself smiling in response.

“You’ve not met everyone else; you won’t be saying that for long.”

“Well from who I have met – Mr. Marston, of course. Um, a fellow named Charles, and then Tilly and Mary-Beth, wasn’t it? – my statement remains true.”

Hosea raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. “We took only the most well-behaved to your exhibition. John forced himself along,” he added with a grin. “It really was quite a stunning collection you had, you know. When’s the next one? Hopefully you’ll be recovered by then.”

Albert’s warm mood faded, leaving a sour feeling that flared when he thought about the real reason he’d been chosen for the exhibitions.

“There won’t be a next one,” he answered. “Something came up.”

Hosea stayed silent, taking a drag from his cigarette.

Albert found himself continuing. “It was a ruse. By Agent Milton. He exploited my connection with Arthur so that he could arrest him. The exhibitions were just part of his plan. _I_ was part of his plan,” he spat.

“Oh,” was all Hosea said, his tone neutral as he took in the information.

“He told me he was a representative of PAWS, you know, the charity?” Hosea nodded. “Said he wanted me to work with the charity to raise awareness for animal conservation, but what he was really doing was trying to lure Arthur out through me.”

“And it worked,” Hosea said, one brow raised as he looked into the distance.

“Yes, because I’m an ignorant fool who should have known better,” he replied bitterly.

“No, because Arthur came.”

Albert looked across to him, frowning at Hosea’s contemplative expression. “I don’t understand.”

“Arthur came.” He didn’t offer anything else, apparently lost in thought, and that left Albert to wallow in misery. His thoughts turned to the last time he had seen Arthur, jumping off a train with torn stitches and a bullet wound in his thigh, and he grimaced.

“May I see him?” he asked after a while.

Hosea shot him a regretful look. “Not yet,” he said gently. “I’m not sure the others want you near the house, to be frank.”

“Of course,” Albert replied. That explained why he was on the outskirts in a shack, then.

“Mr. Mason, if I may, what do you know about us?”

“I know only what I’ve read in the newspapers, Mr. Matthews. And considering the difference between the Arthur Morgan I used to read of and the Arthur Morgan I’ve come to know, I can imagine that some facts have been greatly exaggerated about you all.”

“Some,” Hosea agreed. “But you mustn’t mistake us for some community that simply enjoys the outdoors and stays away from civilization. We’re out here for a reason. We’re criminals. People have died because of us.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “I read about Blackwater.”

“Messy business, that,” Hosea said bitterly. “Hell, I’m still not sure what went wrong there. But that’s the kinda thing I’m talking about.” He glanced behind him, towards the camp. “You’ve heard of Dutch Van der Linde?”

“Certainly. I’ve heard of a lot of you.”

“He would very much like to meet you. To thank you for saving Arthur.”

“I’d rather he didn’t,” he muttered, that sour feeling rising up again.

“So would I,” Hosea said, and Albert looked at him in surprise, partly because he didn’t think Hosea had heard him.

“While he doesn’t want you too close to camp, he still appreciates what you’ve done. I think everyone does. But it isn’t just a matter of letting you or not letting you near the camp. For me at least, I worry about letting the camp near _you_.”

Albert frowned at him, confusion in his tone, “I don’t understand,” he repeated.

“You don’t have to. I just want you to be wary, alright? And listen, what you told me about Milton’s plans involving you? Keep it between us. I don’t want Dutch learning of it.” He sighed. “I don’t want him concocting some plan to draw Milton out using you. Like I said: people have died because of us.”

Hosea looked at him with a small smile, “And I don’t think Arthur would ever forgive him if something happened to you.”


	19. Shady Belle II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning for this chapter: there's two instances of vomiting. If you're not into that, just let me know and I'll find a way to give you the chapter with those bits cut out :)
> 
> Also this fic hit 50k and I have no idea how that happened, I never imagined this story would become this long oops

 

**_He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead-_**

_I failed him._

**_He’s dead._ **

Albert sat bolt upright, gasping and his chest heaving as he looked around him wildly. He was in the shack, on the makeshift bed.

_It was a night terror. It was a night terror._

**_You’re pathetic._ **

**_He’s dead._ **

Memories flashed across his vision, disorientating him. Arthur being beaten by the Pinkertons. **_Dead_.** Arthur as he was carried out of the prison. **_Dead_.** Leaping from the train. **_Dead_.** His unmoving body sprawled on the ground. **_Dead_.**

That last image wasn’t even a memory; it was what had plagued Albert as he slept.

_He had gotten out from Agent Daniels’ grip and jumped without injuring himself somehow. The train had blown past, leaving silence settling around him as he got to his feet. He called for Arthur but there was no reply. He stumbled through the brush, pushing branches aside and tripping over brambles as he continued to shout the outlaws name. Eventually he found blood on the ground, and Albert spent what felt like an eternity walking through the forest following the bloody trail. Some distant part of him questioned how Arthur had gotten so far away from the train bleeding that much, but as that coppery tang reached the back of his throat and suffocated his senses, he ignored all reasoning and carried on._

_His heart was thudding heavily. He could hear his quick breaths. He was completely, utterly alone._

_And when he emerged from the undergrowth and found Arthur, neck twisted at an unnatural angle with blood pooling around him, he knew it to be true._

**_Dead_.**

“Christ,” he said hoarsely, scrambling out of bed and going to the door. He was coherent enough to grab his canteen before he staggered outside, rounded the shabby building and collapsed at the end of the boardwalk and vomited into the river, coughing wetly and choking on phlegm. His shaking hands uncapped his canteen and he rinsed his mouth and spat out the contaminated water, sitting back on his heels and wiping his sweating forehead.

It was very early in the morning and the air was still cool, something Albert was very thankful for at that moment. He wasn’t sure he’d cope very well with the humid temperatures, scared and nauseated as he was. He wanted to get back to his bed and rest, but his legs were feeling shaky and he didn’t want to fall asleep while he was in such a state of mind. It would only send him straight back out there.

Albert’s head was pounding and his eyes were watering, something that always happened whenever he threw up. He had a sip of water and swiped at the tears that threatened to fall, feeling ridiculous. Arthur was the one suffering life-threatening injuries, and here he was shaking like a leaf and feeling on the verge of a breakdown. It would be mortifying to have any members of the gang see him like this, and he was once again glad that he’d been placed so far away from them.

“Here.”

He yelped and turned suddenly, looking wide-eyed at the blonde woman standing behind him. She had one brow raised and was holding out a metal cup, a large rifle resting in her other hand.

“Figured you’ll be wanting some coffee,” she said in a raspy voice.

“Oh. Thank you.” Albert accepted the drink and tried to surreptitiously dry his eyes, pretending to scratch the side of his head. She continued to watch him, the tilt of her lips betraying her amusement, and Albert offered a small smile. “Very kind of you.”

“S’nothing,” she answered, walking away, back to the bank of the river and further left. “Was headin’ this way anyway. Guard duty.”

“Right.” Albert looked across the river, wondering how likely an attack from the water would be. He imagined the biggest enemy there was the alligators. “I’ll, um, leave you to it.” He got to his feet, stretching his legs and shaking some feeling back into them. His ramshackle bed beckoned.

“Welcome to join me, if you want,” she said in a bored tone. “Be glad for the company.” She thought for a moment. “Ya don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

“Actually, I think I’d enjoy the company too,” he answered, surprised. He followed her along the edge of the river until she finally stopped, and Albert casted a wary glance at the crosses stuck in the ground behind them.

“Who…?”

“Sadie Adler.”

Albert blinked, trying to make out the name _Sadie Adler_ on one of the graves, before he realized the woman was introducing herself.

“Oh. Albert Mason.”

“Charmed,” she responded in a pseudo-posh voice, and Albert smiled, a rare occurrence lately.

“The pleasure’s all mine, let me assure you,” he said, tilting his head downwards.

Sadie cackled. “I sure don’t miss havin’ to talk to people like that no more.”

Albert raised his eyebrows. “You were in high society?”

“Oh God no, nothin’ like that. Just bein’ in regular old society was exhaustin’ enough. All that small talk.” She pulled a face. “No time for it.”

“I agree with you there,” he murmured, taking a sip. The bitter liquid made him grimace but he wanted something other than stale water.

Sadie turned her head, looking him up and down. “You doin’ okay, Mr. Mason? Heard you had quite the adventure.”

“Arthur came out of it much worse than me,” he said quickly.

“So I’ve seen but I weren’t askin’ about Arthur, I was askin’ about you.”

Albert smiled faintly. “I’m just fine, thank you.”

“You don’t look fine. Your hands are shakin’.”

Albert swallowed, looking down at where his traitorous hands were holding the cup. “So they are. I hadn’t even noticed.”

“And I saw ya throwin’ up into the river.”

He inhaled his coffee too quickly and started coughing. “I’m beginning to see why you didn’t fit well into society,” he gasped after a few moments.

She ignored his coughing fit and continued, “I think you should be restin’. Hosea said you hit your head real hard. Standin’ up can’t be much fun.”

It wasn’t. Albert very much wanted to sleep it off but he worried he’d only make things worse if he had to endure a stressful sleep.

“I needed some fresh air,” he said instead, which wasn’t a lie. A thought occurred to him, and he looked across to Sadie. “You said you’ve seen Arthur? How is he?”

She pursed her lips. “Breathin’,” she said eventually.

“Oh God,” he muttered, passing a hand over his eyes.

“ _Alive_. That’s the most important thing.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, looking into his murky drink.

**_He’s dead._ **

_Not yet, he isn’t_.

“He’ll bounce back,” she added, sounding sure, and Albert blinked at her. “He always does.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he replied, his stomach still churning.

Sadie’s smile dropped. “There was this one time, not too long ago, he got kidnapped by some O’Driscolls.” She spat the word, and Albert didn’t dare ask who the O’Driscolls were. “He escaped them and got himself back to us. When he showed up in camp, blood everywhere and slumped across his horse, I thought for sure he was gonna die that night.”

She swallowed and jabbed the butt of her rifle at the ground, a frown on her face. “But he didn’t,” she continued. “He was in and out for a long time, but one day he woke up properly and started grumbling about how long his beard had grown. I knew then that he was made of much tougher stuff than I’d thought. He’ll pull through anythin’.”

“I hope you’re right,” Albert said quietly. “I certainly wish I had his resilience.”

“Me too.”

They stayed silent for a while, Albert willing his hands to stop shaking while Sadie looked out across the river. Eventually he gave in to his exhaustion and cleared his throat.

“I’m going to lie down for a while,” he said, shooting Sadie a small smile. “Thank you for bringing me coffee.”

“I weren’t bringin’ you nothing, I told you: I was headed this way anyway,” she replied, looking dead ahead.

“Right. Well thank you anyway.”

“See you later, Mr. Mason.”

He returned to the shack, stopping for a moment inside the dark and drab room and staring at the bed. Despite the numerous blankets piled on top it wasn’t a welcoming sight. Nevertheless, if Albert wanted to return to full health then he needed his rest, and so he climbed in and closed his eyes.

He was only now able to realize just how quiet it was. Being on the outskirts of camp, he couldn’t hear the others talking, and aside from his harsh breathing there was only the soft lapping of the river for him to hear. His heart began thumping quicker the longer the silence stretched on, and he longed to hear Arthur mumbling to himself whenever he was distracted, or his quiet chuckle whenever Albert surprised him. Even his muffled curses when he couldn’t open a can of beans or find something in his satchel were a comfort to Albert, making him smile slightly whenever he heard it. Though Arthur was often quiet around him, Albert had never realized just how reassuring he found the slight, unintentional noises he made when it was just the two of them. He thought back to the days they spent out in the Heartlands, Arthur falling asleep next to him or muttering to his horse as he watched Albert take photographs, and Albert longed to feel as peaceful as he had then, instead of this constant sickness that plagued him each time he thought of what he’d put Arthur through.

It was with those conflicting thoughts swirling through his head that Albert eventually drifted off to sleep, and it was with the image of Agent Daniels throwing him from the train that he was bluntly woken up.

The coffee he’d drank earlier was rushing back, and Albert was once again hurriedly kicking away the blankets. As he staggered to the door he spotted a metal bucket sitting by his bed, and with a grateful sob he took two steps forwards and collapsed next to it, throwing up again. His fitful heaving eventually turned to convulsive retches when nothing else came up. This time he didn’t wipe his eyes when they filled with tears and Albert choked and cried and shivered and shook, his damp hair falling in front of his face as he bowed his head over the bucket.

**_It's all your fault._ **

**_You’re pathetic._ **

“Ah, shit, Mr. Mason. C’mere.”

Footsteps thudded closer and Albert felt the warmth of a blanket settling around his shoulders.

“Here.” His canteen was pressed into his hand and he took a sip, coughing slightly as he spat it back into the bucket. His breathing was still shaky, and a hesitant hand squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t no need to be sorry,” Sadie said, a frown on her face. “Let’s get ya back to bed.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “M’alright. I don’t – I’m alright.”

“Okay. You gonna hurl again?”

Albert shook his head.

“Then I’m gonna get rid of this.” She stood up and held the bucket away from her.

“I’m sorry.”

“I said there’s no need to be. I meant it.” Sadie hurried out the door, clearly not believing that Albert wouldn’t be sick again, and Albert shuffled back until he was leaning against the boxes that made up his bed. He drew his knees up and put his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching at his hair.

He heard the door open. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have given you coffee,” Sadie said ruefully. The bucket was placed next to him and Sadie crouched down.

“You sure you don’t wanna go back to bed?”

Albert shook his head. “Can’t sleep,” he muttered. “I don’t… Don’t want to–” He cleared his throat– “right now.”

“Ah.” He heard Sadie settle on the floor next to him, and he lifted his head to see her looking at the wall opposite, her expression distant.

Albert wiped his eyes, feeling stupid. “You must think me ridiculous.”

“I think you have a concussion,” she retorted. “And I think you got thrown from a train. There’s nothin’ about that that’s ridiculous.”

He sipped at his canteen. “You’ve all been through much worse,” he said. “It’s not as if I was shot or–”

“Hey,” she said sharply. “I said it _ain’t_ _ridiculous_. This ain’t your world. Hell, it weren’t my world and when I–” She cut herself off, her lips pressed together tightly.

“I was the same,” she said roughly. “When Dutch found me and brought me back to camp, I didn’t talk to nobody for a long time.”

“What happened?”

“It don’t matter,” Sadie said, and Albert didn’t pry. He was a stranger, after all. “But I weren’t no gunslinger before.”

“High society, wasn’t it?”

Her mouth quirked. “Somethin’ like that. I didn’t wanna be anywhere near these folks,” She jerked her head back towards camp. “But they was kind. And sympathetic. They gave me time to heal, and I needed _a lot_ of it. I still do. They listened when I talked to ‘em, they shared their things with me, and I’ve learned to trust ‘em. Most of ‘em.” She shot him a look. “Stay away from Micah.”

“Um, alright.”

“What I’m tryin’ to tell ya, is that no here is thinkin’ any less of ya. _You were thrown from a train_. That’s nothin’ light. And no one here walks away from the things they’ve seen and been through. Dutch don’t sleep, I don’t speak, Arthur writes in that journal of his. There ain’t no shame in how you cope with shit, ya understand?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Good.” She eyed the bucket nearby. “You goin’ back to sleep?”

“No, not yet.” It was too quiet. “I think I’ll go outside for a moment.”

“Can ya stomach some food? Even if it’s just bread, I think it’ll help ya.”

Albert nodded and flashed her a grateful smile, accepting her hand and letting her pull him to his feet. He wobbled a little as Sadie stepped out, and when he followed her outdoors he was surprised to see that it was evening. He’d slept a few hours, then, although he felt far from rested. He felt weak and horribly embarrassed despite Sadie’s words. He wouldn’t have wanted his closest relations to see him like that, let alone a gun-slinging stranger. He tried not to let it get to him, though, unwilling to make himself feel even more miserable.

He was staring at the river, leaning against the side of the shack when he heard Sadie call out to him.

“Couldn’t stop ‘em, Mr. Mason, I’m real sorry.”

Albert turned and saw Sadie striding towards him, a bowl in her hand, and he noted with a jolt of surprise that four others were following her, also clutching their meals. Sadie was looking pleased with herself and Albert wondered how much she had really protested.

Hosea was there, as was John Marston, and Albert recognized Charles from their meeting in Annesburg. Trailing behind was a dark-haired woman holding a small boy, and she was looking at Albert with an intrigued expression.

“Mr. Mason doesn’t mind if we join him, do you?” Hosea asked, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed him.

“N-Not at all,” he answered, watching as Hosea, Charles and John put down their bowls and disappeared momentarily behind the shack before each emerging carrying a large crate. They put them down before Charles and John fetched two more, and then the men arranged the boxes in a loose circle. Sadie marched inside the shack and came back with the pile of blankets that had been making Albert’s bed, and she distributed them among the others to place on top of the crates.

“Sit,” she said, and Albert found himself between Sadie and Charles, accepting the bowl she was offering and struggling to catch up with what was happening.

“This here’s Abigail and Jack,” Hosea said, ruffling Jack’s hair as he sat next to Charles. John and Abigail took the remaining crates and Jack perched on his mother’s lap, blinking sleepily. Abigail shot Albert a warm smile as Hosea spoke, nodding slightly.

“Nice to finally meet you,” she said. Albert felt his brows rising and he stammered a response.

“Um, you too. Hello,” he added when the boy glanced at him.

“And you remember Charles?”

“Yes, yes I do. You said lovely things about my photographs,” he said, and Charles tipped his head.

“They were true,” he murmured.

“Alright, food’s getting cold folks,” Hosea said, and the others needed no further prompting before digging in. Albert saw that Sadie had given him a very small portion of stew with two bread chunks, and he began tearing apart the bread and dipping it into the stew.

“Albert,” said Hosea, a while later. “Tell me: how did you come to meet Arthur?”

Albert looked up, surprised to see all eyes on him, waiting for his answer. He felt an unfamiliar surge of warmth settle in his stomach and with an unintended smile spreading across his face he began to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so so much for your lovely comments, it means so much to me to see those email notifications and know that someone is enjoying this fic


	20. Shady Belle III

As the night fully settled around them Albert heard the faint strums of a guitar coming from the camp, and he twisted his head to see the other gang members crowding around a campfire to listen. He turned back to the small group sitting with him, surprised that none of them were getting up to go and enjoy themselves.

Although, it seemed that they were having enough fun here. Hosea was talking, Sadie, Charles, John and Abigail laughing at his tale.

“–and then the fishmonger calls out, ‘So how did you enjoy those bass?’”

Albert grinned as the others laughed around him, finding himself glad for the company even though he hardly knew these people. Several hours had passed as if they were minutes, the time spent with Albert talking about the times he had encountered Arthur. Sometimes someone else would chip in with their own story, and from there the conversation had steered towards amusing situations the five gang members had found themselves in with Arthur.

“He’d shoot us if he heard us talkin’ ‘bout him like this,” John snickered.

Sadie said, “You remember when he came back from drinkin’ in that saloon with Lenny, and everyone was bein’ extra loud to piss him off…” As she and John engaged in a series of ‘remember whens’, Albert felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, and hadn’t realized Hosea had gotten up until the older man was speaking into his ear.

“You mind coming with me for a moment, Mr. Mason?”

“Not at all, sir,” Albert said, one brow raised in bemusement as he followed him up the steps of the shack and around the side of the ramshackle building, out of sight of the others. Albert felt a presence at his back and he turned as Charles passed him, stopping to lean against the wooden fence.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“I wanted to talk to you about what you told me yesterday,” Hosea replied, his tone quiet and serious. Albert glanced at Charles.

“I thought you might,” he said hesitantly.

“I’ve already spoken with Charles.”

“Ah.”

Charles nodded. “I told you in Annesburg that I hadn’t heard of PAWS, so after our meeting I looked into them.”

“Agent Milton didn’t make them up,” he said. “I’ve known of them for several years now.”

“It wasn’t a matter of mistrust. I was simply curious,” Charles assured. “Arthur told me the man employing you was named Andrew Mumford, and before he revealed himself to be Milton I had planned on meeting with him.”

“Why?”

Charles shrugged, “The work is important,” was all he said before he continued, “I wrote to PAWS’ office asking for Mumford’s details so I could get in touch, and last week I received a reply.”

“Presumably they told you they couldn’t disclose his details in order to protect his real identity,” Albert mused, but Charles shook his head.

“No, they said they didn’t employ an Andrew Mumford.”

Albert frowned, not entirely sure how that answer differed from his.

Charles continued, “And they proceeded to ask me where I’d heard the name in association with their charity.”

Albert looked between the two men who were watching him intently. “Perhaps it’s my concussion but I’m not seeing your point…”

Hosea spoke up, “It means Milton didn’t gain permission from PAWS to use their charity as a cover.”

Surprise flared within Albert, though he was still hesitant. “Is that illegal?” he asked, unsure. Yes, Milton had pretended to represent a company illicitly, but it _was_ as part of a government operation.

“Perhaps. Defamation of character, maybe. I’m not sure–”

“Trelawny may know,” Charles murmured.

“–But even if it isn’t, it’s still dirty. _Morally unethical_ ,” Hosea said, a spark in his eye. “And I think we can use that to get him to back off.”

“But we got away,” Albert replied. “He doesn’t know where Arthur is.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll give up. We’ve run into him a few times already. He won’t stop coming after us.”

“Then… then you really shouldn’t have brought me here, Mr. Matthews,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “Your companions were right, Agent Milton might track us straight here.”

Hosea shook his head. “For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Mason, you were unconscious. I was hardly going to drop you off somewhere. We are in no less danger than we are usually, and you are safe. That is what is important.”

Albert opened his mouth to respond, but Hosea continued.

“Now, you may not have seen them, but there have been some articles written about you and your exhibitions in the last couple of weeks.”

“I saw one. The reporter had written about Annesburg,” Albert said, remembering Milton showing it to him in Valentine, and the large crowd that showed up to the exhibition as a result of it. He imagined now how irritating it must have been for a reporter to generate such interest in something the agent was trying to do discreetly. “There are more?”

“Yes, another, detailing the Valentine exhibition. Again, this _D. Cartwright_ was very taken with what you had to say. And I think if he really is in your favor, we may be able to use him so that we can guarantee your safety.”

“You plan to expose Milton?” Albert guessed, “Surely he will be unaffected by any story that might run. He was undercover. He’ll say it was a necessary part of catching a criminal.”

“He may be unaffected by the story, but he won’t be able to ignore public opinion,” Hosea countered.

“Pinkertons aren’t well liked in these parts,” Charles explained. “I think Blackwater’s the only town where they’ve any real hold,” Hosea nodded in agreement. “And I imagine PAWS won’t be pleased that an agent was imitating one of their employees because it might tarnish their reputation here if they were seen to be associated with the Pinkertons.”

“It’ll undo any progress they’ve made. They’ll lose sponsors, deals, donations. Nobody here wants to collude with the Pinkertons.”

“So what do you intend to do?” Albert asked.

“I think you should find this reporter, this Cartwright, and tell him that you – an honest man, wanting to do what he can for the environment – were used by Milton as a means to catch an outlaw you have nothing to do with. If we’re right, the reporter will leap at the chance to criticize the Pinkertons, so hopefully he won’t take much persuading.”

“And if he doesn’t care in the slightest?”

Charles spoke, “Then Hosea and I will go to the charity and tell them who Milton is. If we are lucky, they’ll seek financial compensation from Milton and the Pinkertons.”

Albert suddenly remembered something the Sheriff of Blackwater had said to him. “He was being pressured by his employer to catch Arthur quickly,” he said. “The plan he came up with was supposed to unfold over a week at most, but instead it took nearly a month for him to get us. We don’t necessarily need to take any real action, we only have to threaten it. Perhaps he’ll leave Arthur alone for fear of what public exposure will do to his career.”

Hosea nodded slightly. “That could work. We’d need to find a way to get the message to him. A strongly worded letter is hardly the means to go about it.”

“Then I’ll tell him,” Albert said, a chord of bravery he never thought he possessed humming within him. “Let him catch me or something, I don’t know. Once we’re face to face, I’ll make my threat.”

Hosea stared at him, his mouth open. “That concussion was worse than I thought, it seems,” he said lowly. “Otherwise you’d never say such an idiotic thing.”

“I was being serious.”

“That doesn’t stop you from being an idiot,” he snapped, and Albert blinked, taken aback by the change in tone. “You really think such a plan would work?”

“He’s after me, too. As soon as he finds me, I can pressure him into backing off.”

“Or he’ll shoot you before you can say anything.”

“Well if he does that, he’ll have lost the trail to Arthur. I doubt that’s something he wants.”

Charles raised a brow. “You’d really gamble with your life like that?”

“Yes?” he answered, confused that Hosea and Charles weren’t thinking the same way. “I mean, I’m expendable, really, when you think about it. Compared to Arthur and everyone here–”

“ _Stop_ ,” Hosea thundered, and for an unimposing-looking man, he could cut an intimidating figure. His eyes flared brightly and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, clearly restraining himself from saying more.

“We’re seeking out that reporter, and that’s final,” he said curtly. “This conversation is over.” He began striding towards the edge of the building, intending to re-join the others. He paused at the corner, looking over his shoulder at Albert.

“And Mr. Mason, don’t you ever suggest something like that again.” He disappeared from view and Albert glanced at Charles.

“I didn’t mean to upset him,” he said quietly.

“We’re not in the business of sacrificing others in this group, Mr. Mason,” he replied. “If that’s what you thought of us, you are greatly mistaken.” Charles followed after Hosea, and Albert could feel shame coloring his cheeks. That was not what he’d thought of the gang, he’d only been offering his services.

Reluctant to go back to the others, Albert slipped inside the shack and lay down on his bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling. It really was no great thing to have Milton capture him. He had nothing left to lose: no job, no family. Some would say it was hardly a life at all. A small part of him was shocked at his callous disregard of himself, but that was overshadowed by the conviction that it would be for the best. Arthur would mourn, perhaps (he hoped), but he had a family here to support him. He would recover, and he would be _safe_.

For now, though, Albert was content to try and get in touch with the reporter, as Hosea had suggested. There was no need for drastic measures quite yet.

But if it came to it, he would not hesitate, for this much Albert knew: above all else, Arthur’s safety was paramount.

As he lay there, Albert could hear the faint chatter from the small group outside his shack, and it was relieving to know that he was not completely isolated, alone. It calmed the nerves that had fought him so fervently throughout the day and had left him shaking and sick. The low hum of Charles’ voice reverberated through the tired wooden walls, and Sadie’s cackle sounded every now and then, and Albert found himself smiling slightly as his eyes slipped closed and he drifted into a peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

“ _Will someone answer me?!”_

Faint shouting brought Albert out of his sleep, and he inhaled deeply as he realized he hadn’t woken up once during the night. Weak sunlight was streaming in through the gaps on the grimy windows, promising another bright and hot day.

“ _For Christ’s sake!”_

Groggy, Albert sat up, rubbing his eyes and trying to think clearly. He was pleased to note that his pounding headache from the day before had simmered down to a bearable tapping.

“ _You’re all sleepin’? Really?”_

Frowning, Albert decided to venture outside and see what all the fuss was about. It appeared his dizziness had abated also, and he only wobbled slightly as he moved over to the door, taking his canteen with him.

There was no one outside that he could see, although Albert thought he could hear multiple voices coming from inside the large plantation house. Whoever was shouting outdoors wasn’t visible to Albert.

“ _Where the hell is he?”_

Until he was.

Arthur came limping around the corner of the house, his right leg dragging as he strode across the grass, looking around for something. Even from a distance, Albert could see that his expression was fierce, his brow knitted into a frown. His clothes were disheveled and his hair was unkempt but he was completely, wholly, alive.

Albert dropped his canteen.

“ _I said where–_ ” Arthur came to a sudden stop when he spotted Albert, his chest heaving and his mouth open. Albert took an unintended step forward and then Arthur was moving, marching across the ground determinedly, his face set as he ignored the pain his leg was undoubtedly causing him. Albert was moving too, his hesitant steps morphing into a desperate tread as he rushed to close the distance between them.

“Arthur,” he choked.

“You son of a bitch,” Arthur growled, his voice wavering. “You stupid goddamn son of a bitch.”

He was finally _there_ and Arthur held him tightly when his arms came up around the outlaw’s neck, letting out a shaky breath and screwing his eyes shut. From seeing Arthur behind bars in Blackwater and being physically unable to be near him, to knowing he was somewhere nearby in Shady Belle but not allowed to see him had left Albert with the aching need to confirm for himself that Arthur was alright, was _going to be_ alright. It had been nearly a week, and clutching Arthur now, Albert could feel the tension that had been building upon his shoulders from that time dissolve around him as if it had never been there. His fingers clenched his cotton shirt and he was certain he would never let go.

“I was so scared,” he whispered into his shoulder. He felt Arthur’s hands harden around his back as he spoke.

“S’alright. You’re alright,” came the faint reply.

They held on a moment longer, reluctant to let go, but when Albert opened his eyes and saw figures watching them from the house, he slowly pulled away. He offered a sheepish smile to Arthur.

“You look awful,” he said. It was true. Arthur was pale and he had dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted.

“You ain’t no blossomin’ rose yourself,” the outlaw replied, one brow raised. “You doin’ okay?” He was looking at the cuts on Albert’s face, and his fingers twitched. “How – I don’t really remember what happened after I got off that train.” He frowned down at the ground. “Last thing I saw was you bein’ held back by that agent. How did you get away?”

“I jumped,” he answered gently, hoping it would convince Arthur. He didn’t need to know he was thrown. It wouldn’t help matters. “It wasn’t the softest of landings, but Mr. Matthews found me.”

Arthur nodded. “Explains why you’re here, at least.”

“He’s been very kind. Everybody has.”

“You’ve met everyone?”

“Well, no.” Albert spotted movement out of his peripheral and he looked over Arthur’s shoulder, taking a deep breath. “But I think I’m about to meet Mr. Van der Linde.”

“Son, was there any need to go around waking us all up like that?” Dutch’s smooth voice, tinged with amusement, caught Arthur’s attention, and he turned as the other man marched over to them.

“No one was respondin’,” he grumbled.

“Well, it looks like you found your answer.” His brown eyes flickered over Albert, looking him up and down. He smiled. “And now that you’ve seen Mr. Mason, will you please go back to bed?”

“I need to talk to him,” said Arthur, stubborn.

“At least sit down,” Albert chimed in, gesturing to the boxes near the shack where the others had been sitting the night before. “Your leg must be causing you some pain.”

“Fine,” he huffed, ignoring Albert’s offered hand and limping towards the boxes. Dutch’s eyes met his again, assessing, before he followed Arthur. Albert trailed after them and perched on the edge of one of the boxes, unsure what to say. He had been hoping for a moment alone with Arthur, but he was in Dutch’s camp, after all; what he wanted didn’t matter.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the chance to thank you, Mr. Mason, for helping Arthur out of that jail in Blackwater.”

“It was nothing,” Albert muttered, growing sick of people thanking him.

“On the contrary, a jail break is a hell of a thing to pull off. Makes me wonder if you’ve done it before,” Dutch said with a small laugh.

Albert smiled, wondering if he was imagining the serious note underlining Dutch’s comment. “I assure you, if I had, this one would have gone a lot more smoothly.”

“Ah, I’ve had worse,” Arthur said dismissively, though Albert barely believed him. With Arthur looking the way he was, he doubted the man could survive ‘worse’.

Dutch pulled out a cigar from inside his vest, speaking as he lit it, “I must admit, though, I am curious to know how you became a person of interest for Agent Milton, Mr. Mason.” He popped the cigar in his mouth and looked at Albert, one eyebrow lifted.

Albert wasn’t imagining it, then.

Arthur seemed to pick up on his tone as well. He frowned across at Dutch. “Because of me,” he said shortly. “’Cos of us. Mason had nothin’ to do with him. For Christ’s sake, he thought Milton was someone else.”

“How do you mean?” Dutch asked.

“Arthur,” Albert said hesitantly, remembering Hosea’s words from two days ago. Arthur glanced across at him, the frown still on his face.

“Arthur.” Dutch pressed harder, his eyes darting between the two of them.

“It don’t matter,” Arthur said, leaning back, away from Dutch. “Mason hadn’t met Milton before me, and if it weren’t for me, he never would have.”

Dutch considered them. “I imagine you’re right about that,” he said around his cigar.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Albert, repeating Arthur’s statement. He shot the outlaw a small smile, “No point thinking on ‘what ifs’.”

“That’s very true, Mr. Mason. What’s important now is where we go from here. I wonder if–”

“Arthur! What on Earth are you doing out of bed?”

Hosea’s voice sounded from behind Albert, and he turned to see the man strolling over to them, a broad smile on his face. He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, and Albert was as pleased to see Arthur return the smile as he was to have Hosea interrupt their conversation.

“I couldn’t persuade him to go back,” Dutch said, a hint of affection around his lips as he watched Hosea and Arthur interact. “He seemed to prefer to sit out here. Maybe you can knock some sense into him, Hosea.”

“Ah, he’s fine here,” Hosea said, claiming a box next to Albert. “If not, we’ll get Charles to drag you back inside.”

“I can talk for myself, ya know,” Arthur grumbled.

“Oh we know. We heard you just fine earlier,” Dutch retorted with a snicker.

“And how are you doing, Mr. Mason?” Hosea asked, fixing his sharp eye on him. “How’s your head?”

“It’s fine, thank you,” he said, ignoring Arthur’s gaze snapping to him. “I can hardly feel it. How – how are you?” he added lamely.

“Hmm, you’re not quite as good at deflecting as Arthur, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think anyone’s as good as Arthur,” Dutch mused, and he and Hosea shared a grin. “If he don’t want to talk then he’ll tighten up stiffer than a showgirl’s corset.” The two of them cackled and Albert bit his lip to stop from smiling when he saw the furious blush that painted the outlaw’s cheeks.

“You two finished?” he groused. “Been unconscious for who knows how long and this is how ya welcome me back?”

“Well sure, we haven’t been able to tease ya for a week now,” Hosea said, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“You’re both children,” he muttered.

“You’re one to talk,” Dutch argued. “Hosea, do you remember when Arthur was twenty or so–”

“Oh, not that damn _fish_ ,” he yelled, throwing his head back.

“Ar­- _thur_ ,” Dutch emphasized, sounding hurt. “Don’t you want your friend to know a little more about you?”

“He don’t need to know that!”

Of course, Albert already knew. He caught Hosea’s eye, warm and gleaming, and he couldn’t help joining in. Plus, if it helped him stay on Dutch’s good side, he’d do anything.

“What about a fish?” he asked innocently. Arthur groaned loudly.

“I’m so glad you asked, Mr. Mason,” Dutch said, charm oozing out of his words as he launched into the story, and as he spoke Albert found it easy to see how he was leading such a rag-tag group of people. When he wanted to be, Dutch was charismatic enough to make you believe he could do anything. It was such a stark difference to the calculating, analytical tone that had been scoping him out earlier, and he was once again grateful that Hosea had arrived and prompted the shift in atmosphere.

The morning passed in much the same way the evening yesterday had done, only this time Arthur was there to witness the embarrassing stories. Occasionally Dutch or Hosea would be interrupted in their retelling by a member of the gang coming over to say hello to Arthur, and by the time the day dipped into the afternoon Sadie, Charles and John had joined their group, the three of them equally eager to make Arthur squirm.

Albert was more than happy sitting and listening, unnoticed by the others, as it gave him ample opportunity to really _look_ at Arthur, to run his eyes over the man’s face and commit what he could to memory. As Hosea had said earlier, Milton wasn’t going to give up, and as Albert had no idea what was going to happen next, he greedily took every second he could to study Arthur’s hands, his hair, his eyes. It was all being stored away for a time in the future when he would be undoubtedly alone, when he could sit and remember the man he had grown so horribly, unnaturally fond of and imagine what might have been. It was always going to be a _might_ , it could never be a _will_.

His eyes left Arthur for a moment and met Dutch’s brown ones, watching him with a spark of interest, and he blinked rapidly and looked away. When he dared glance back up, Dutch’s attention was on John, who was rattling on about something Arthur had done when the two of them were younger.

Eventually, once the conversation had moved away from Arthur’s embarrassment and onto more general chatter, Arthur began blinking heavily and Albert wondered if he was going to tip off his box. He placed a hand on his arm and squeezed gently, lifting a brow when Arthur’s tired eyes turned to him.

“Alright?” he asked quietly, mindful of the conversation around them.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice rough. “Just tired.”

“I think you should get some more rest.”

“No, no,” he said slowly. “S’alright. I want to… stay here for a bit.”

“You’re half asleep, Arthur,” he said softly.

“I haven’t… s’been a week and I haven’t been able to… you’ve been _there_ but there’s never been time to…”

“Arthur,” he interrupted, leaning closer. Arthur tilted his head nearer, his dazed eyes trying to stay focused on his face. “We’ve got time. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, a faint frown forming.

Albert slid his hands down his arm and intertwined their fingers. He squeezed briefly and Arthur returned the gesture before he let go and sat back up.

“Mr. Matthews,” he said, turning towards the other man and surprised to see Hosea already standing.

“Time for bed?” he asked, casting his eye over the wilting form of Arthur.

“I think so,” Albert said at the same time Arthur muttered, “Yeah.”

“Oh, now he’s agreeable to it?” Dutch chided, as he got to his feet as well. The others took their cue and made their way back to the main camp but Charles stepped forward and he and Dutch each took hold of one of Arthur’s arms and helped him to stand. Dutch was talking quietly to Arthur as he led him towards the house, and Albert’s heart twinged at the knowledge that Arthur must still be in a lot of pain.

Someone behind him cleared their throat and Albert looked over his shoulder at Hosea, who was still nearby.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Of course,” Albert replied.

Hosea crossed his arms and leveled him with a considering look. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you yesterday. Forgive me.”

Albert waved him off. “It’s forgotten.” He was expecting Hosea to walk off having made his apology, but when he heard nothing to indicate that the man had left, he looked around again. Hosea was still watching him, clearly mulling over what he wanted to say.

“You’ll tell me if you need anything, won’t you, Mr. Mason? I know we don’t know each other all that well, and you’ve no reason to trust any of us, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable while you’re here.”

“You’ve already done so much for me, Mr. Matthews,” he replied. “You needn’t worry.”

“Just… be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said again, frowning when Hosea glanced back to the retreating figures of Dutch, Arthur and Charles.

“Remember what I said.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for commenting and leaving kudos! You're all lovely x


	21. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Pulls you in close* I know I'm trash and I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to update.
> 
> I've recently started a postgraduate degree (in creative writing, if you can believe it) and it is hard work, Reader. It's taken up a lot more of my time than I thought it would, so I've been writing this in bits and pieces whenever I can. It's definitely going to be finished because I'd feel to guilty leaving a work incomplete, but I can't guarantee you'll be getting weekly updates like I had been doing. Sorry again, and thanks so much for reading this and sticking with it, I really do appreciate it!

His promise to speak to Arthur tomorrow was a broken one. As the next day progressed, Albert learned from Hosea that he and Dutch wanted to keep Arthur in bed for a little while longer, to ensure his leg healed properly. Albert understood, and not wanting to do anything to prohibit Arthur’s recovery, he stayed away from the house, even though he dearly wanted to be by the man’s side.

He wasn’t sure what the plan was for him. He was more or less recovered, save for a few aches around his ribs and a headache that wasn’t ready to give him peace just yet. He didn’t know if Hosea and Dutch were expecting him to leave now or if they wanted him to remain until they worked out what to do about Agent Milton. As far as he knew, he and Hosea were agreed on tracking down the reporter who had written about his exhibitions in the hopes that he would be interested in writing a piece on what Milton had done, but Albert didn’t necessarily need to be in camp for that plan to work out. It would only be a matter of time before he was asked to leave, and when he did he had no idea where he was going to go.

But for the time being he was kept entertained by Sadie and Tilly Jackson, who occasionally played dominoes and card games with him. Charles appeared next to him one day and offered to show him how to hunt, and with a faint voice he declined, not particularly in the mood to kill anything. Charles had nodded and left without saying much else. Later on, John Marston ambled over and asked if he’d ever shot a gun and would he like to learn how to? Again, Albert had declined, appreciative of John’s intentions but horrified at the thought of having to shoot a gun again. Firing blindly at the Pinkertons on the train was all the experience he intended to have.

The problem was, Albert itched to do something. He was never the type to sit around and do nothing, he always had some sort of project on the go, whether it was working in New York City or taking photographs in the West. He longed to have his camera back, but he had no idea what had happened to it – or his other belongings for that matter. He’d left his satchel on his horse in Strawberry, and presumably it had remained there while the Pinkertons took he and Arthur away. He cared little for what was in his satchel; only a little money and some maps, really, but knowing that his camera was likely lost for good stung deeply. That was his livelihood gone, and it wouldn’t be easy to purchase another one. It would take some time to save enough, and now that he knew he wasn’t going to be paid for the sham exhibitions, it was going to be even longer before he had any real savings again. The deadlines for the loans he had taken out upon his first trip out West hadn’t disappeared, and Albert was very aware that they were approaching quickly.

But if there was one thing Albert was good at, it was ignoring his problems. There was nothing he could do now, and so there was little use in worrying. Once he had gotten himself and Arthur out from the Pinkertons’ eye, he could worry about his finances properly.

Day turned to night, and Albert lay in bed wondering how Arthur was doing. He’d not seen any more of Dutch, something he was relieved about, and Hosea had mentioned earlier that Dutch was sitting with Arthur. He wondered what he might have said to Arthur before deciding that it wasn’t really any of his business. He slept fitfully that night, although he was thankful he wasn’t plagued by any night terrors that time. Knowing Arthur was on the mend had soothed his soul somewhat.

The following day drifted on much the same as the previous, with no sign of Arthur. Albert sat on the porch of the shack and accepted a cup of coffee from Sadie.

“Goin’ into Rhodes later,” she commented, coming to stand next to where Albert was sitting and staring back at the camp. “You need anythin’?”

“An official letter of pardon?” he responded dryly, his gaze also fixed on the figures dotted around camp, trying to see if any of them was Arthur.

“Not sure I can get my hands on one of those.”

He sighed, “Some strawberries, then?”

Sadie smiled. “That, I can get ya.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “I think Pearson might have some in his wagon, have ya looked there?”

Albert glanced at her, his brow raised. “I’ve no idea who Pearson is.”

“ _Why dontcha ask_?” she mock-whispered.

“I don’t know anybody. I can’t talk to them.”

“You talk to me.”

“I think you’ll find _you_ talk to _me_.”

She rolled her eyes, “Well I can go away if that’s what you prefer.”

“No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He took a sip of his drink, trying to arrange his words. “I tend to get nervous. When it comes to talking with people.”

Sadie tilted her head. “Why?”

He smiled wryly, “It’s not a choice. If I knew why, I would know how to overcome it. I stutter, I stammer, I ramble about things nobody finds interesting, and so I’ve found it’s best… not to bother.”

“You get along pretty well with Arthur,” she observed, and Albert laughed.

“You weren’t there the first time we met. Too busy talking to him and blathering on about photography I didn’t notice a coyote stealing my bag. I had to ask Arthur to retrieve it.” He put his lips to his cup. “I’m surprised he came back.”

Sadie was watching him out of the corner of her eye, “Starstruck, was ya?”

He inhaled his coffee too quickly and choked, coughing loudly. “Star – no, I – I just told you, I was babbling–”

“You don’t gotta explain. I don’t blame ya.”

“Mrs. Adler, you really have got the wrong end of the stick–”

“I seen the way ya look at him,” she interrupted, her sharp eyes piercing his flimsy façade. “I ain’t blind.”

“I’m afraid you’re sorely mistaken. We’re merely friends–”

“Mr. Mason,” she persisted, silencing him. Albert felt his cheeks reddening, and he stared resolutely into his drink. Sadie’s tone softened. “You ain’t gotta pretend with me.”

Albert stayed quiet, refusing to confirm anything. It was too risky. Never mind what Sheriff Pike and his laws thought of men like him, he was in a camp of _outlaws_. There was no doubt some of them would not take kindly to having him around if they knew the truth, no matter how good Sadie’s intentions were.

He heard Sadie sigh. “I’ll get ya them strawberries.” She tipped the rest of her coffee into a nearby bush, strolling away and disappearing into the camp.

Hosea had lent him a book, and Albert spent much of the day out on the porch reading, only occasionally glancing up to check for any sign of Arthur. Every now and then he was interrupted by faint shouts from the camp, and Albert would pause from his book to watch some of the gang members carrying large crates of something across camp, placing them at various points. He couldn’t see what was in them – he was too far away to tell – but the gang was laughing and chatting loudly with each other, so whatever they held had put them in a good mood.

Sadie returned from Rhodes some hours later, stopping by the shack to toss two cans of strawberries at Albert with a nod before she disappeared inside the house. He opened one of the cans and began chewing on the fruit, content to sit and watch the gang from afar.

* * *

They were throwing a party.

It turned out the crates deposited around camp contained bottles of beer and as the evening drew close Albert saw Dutch stand at the top of the steps of the house and talk to everyone. He couldn’t make out what was being said but occasionally the camp members cheered, and soon the strums of a guitar drifted over their voices as they sang and laughed.

Albert couldn’t help lingering on his small porch to watch the others. It was a welcome distraction from his anxiety over being in the camp, and seeing the silhouettes enjoying themselves settled the nervous energy inside him, although he wasn’t sure how long that would last the longer the beer was passed around. This was the family Arthur had grown up in, that Sadie had been welcomed into. He wondered how many of them were misfits and outcasts, wanted only by Dutch. He wondered what that level of appreciation and loyalty does to a man’s intentions. He could tell Arthur trusted Dutch, and he had seen that Sadie was willing to follow him, too; but Albert had met enough ambitious, determined, and charismatic men at galas and balls to know that people like Dutch didn’t sit well with him, and frustratingly he couldn’t pinpoint why.

A scratchy waltz emitting from a gramophone somewhere broke him from his thoughts, and he lamented the loss of a good night’s sleep.

“Ya still bein’ miserable?”

Sadie ambled over to him, a bottle in her hand, looking pleased with herself.

“Charming.”

“S’true.”

“It isn’t. I ate those strawberries you bought me.”

“Yeah but ya looked sour doin’ it.”

“I did not.”

“Sure ya did. And I know the fruit wasn’t off.”

“Maybe that’s just my natural expression.”

“Nah, that’s more scared-lookin’.”

Albert laughed despite himself. “Is this your way of cheering me up?”

Sadie tossed her bottle away and lent on the knee she’d placed on the bottom step of the shack. “I ain’t here to cheer anyone up, Mr. Mason. Come dance with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, c’mon. Seein’ you sittin’ over here while everyone’s havin’ a good time, it’s a little pathetic, y’know?”

He squinted, observing her swaying form. “Are you drunk?”

“No sir-ee,” she slurred, a lopsided grin stretching across her face.

“Very convincing.”

“Besides, you should be involved. We’re celebratin’ Arthur, after all.”

“You are?”

“Ahhhh, see?” She pointed up at him, her expression bright, “See how you perked up? I told ya, I can tell you’re besoot–besotted by hi–”

“Keep it down, will you?” He hastened down the steps and gripped her outstretched hand, drawing her close.

“ _I know ya secret_ ,” she whispered, poking him in the chest, “ _Dance with me_.”

He sighed in defeat, knowing he was never going to get his way. A sober Sadie Adler was plenty headstrong; he had a feeling drunk Sadie Adler would be annoyingly persistent.

“Alright,” he conceded. “But may we talk about something else?”

“Sure. You wanna drink?”

“No, thank you.” The last time he had gotten drunk he had nearly gotten Arthur arrested. In hindsight, his inadvertent blustering through Milton’s operation had only delayed the inevitable. He and Arthur had still ended up in Blackwater.

“You’re lookin’ sour again.”

“Very funny.”

They swayed from side to side, Sadie’s hand resting loosely in his. She had her eyes closed and was humming off tune to the music. Albert smiled at the sight, his eyes flickering over to where everyone else was, and there he could see others dancing together. He wondered if Arthur was among them, enjoying himself.

“Is this celebration really for Arthur?”

“Mm-hm. Welcomin’ him back. Celebratin’ his – _your_ – triumph over the Pinkertons. That’s why I said you should be joinin’ in.”

“I’ve not seen him.”

Her eyes opened. “Ya lookin’?”

His gaze snapped back to her. “I thought we aren’t going to talk about–”

“We ain’t,” she interrupted, “But ya know… if we did… I would say there ain’t nothing to worry about.”

“I would say there’s _a lot_ to worry about,” he said quickly, his eyes darting anywhere but her.

Sadie fell silent, simply looking at him as they continued swaying.

“They were going to kill me for it,” Albert found himself continuing, something within him needing to fill the silence. “In Blackwater. That was my crime… sodomy.” His voice cracked and he cleared it with a cough, looking steadfastly over Sadie’s shoulder where the camp was celebrating.

“Milton got me drunk and I acted like a fool, and I suppose I revealed too much. The funny thing is, I can’t even remember what I said. When he arrested us, he sounded so… disgusted. He fully believes I belong in a penitentiary.”

“Ain’t right,” Sadie said, quietly but vehemently.  Albert finally allowed himself to look at her.

“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “But I can’t do anything about that. I can’t change people’s minds because I’d be hanged as soon as I tried. So I mean no disrespect, but I don’t think you quite understand when you say there’s nothing to worry about. Any time I decide to tell someone about who I am, I’m putting my life in their hands.”

Sadie’s voice was hoarse when she said, “I’m sorry. I’m real sorry.”

Albert shrugged. “It isn’t your fault.”

“No, but I shouldn’t have teased ya like that. I shoulda backed off.”

“It’s alright,” he said, smiling slightly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been teased about someone I – well. It’s never happened, is all.”

Sadie glossed over his near-confession and quirked a brow. “You didn’t have a brother or sister who irritated you about it when you was young?”

“Oh, I’ve not told anybody.” He remembered his drunken stupor in Valentine. “Consciously. You’re the only one I’ve told.” Even then he hadn’t exactly _told_ Sadie; she had just been very accurate in her assumption.

Sadie stopped swaying. “Ya serious?”

“Yes.”

A blush painted her cheeks as she frowned, thinking, “Then you really should have told me to shut it. I don’t half put my foot in it sometimes.”

“It’s alright,” he reminded her, and he prompted her into swaying to the music again. “If I was truly worried about what you’d think, I’d have run off in the night. But you seemed – you _seem_ – trustworthy. I like to think I’m not wrong about that sort of thing.”

“I appreciate that Mr. Mason,” Sadie said. A small grin twisted at her lips, “Although I have to say, I don’t think that’s much of a compliment, seein’ as you was willin’ to trust Milton.”

Albert sighed, shaking his head. “I think if I had known he was a Pinkerton, I would’ve been a bit less inclined to trust him.”

Sadie squeezed his shoulder. “Like I said, you ain’t to blame. He coulda come after anyone of us. It’s not your fault he chose Arthur, and it’s not fair you got caught in the crossfire. If he believed Arthur was dangerous then he never shoulda gotten you involved. What kinda man does that make him?” she spat.

Albert grimaced, unsure of what else to say. There was little use going over the what if’s; he had to focus on what was to come, and how he was going to help the gang out of the Pinkertons’ reach.

Sadie seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. Her bitter expression had cleared and she was tilting her head to the music.

“Reckon you’re in with a shot, Mr. Mason,” she said, her voice sing-song.

“What’s that?”

“With Arthur. I can see he’s real fond of ya.”

Albert felt his cheeks coloring. “We’re just friends.”

“But you don’t have to be. You trust me, do you trust Arthur?”

“Of course,” he said instantly, and Sadie smiled.

“I do too. And I think if you were to talk to him about this, you’d be pleased with where the two of you end up.”

Albert looked down at where their feet were stepping from side to side. “I think I’d like that.”

“I think he would too. And ya know,” She leaned closer, looking sly. “Despite this party bein’ for him, I heard Hosea say he weren’t to get up until later on tonight. By all accounts, he’s alone in there.” She nodded at the large house, looming in the enveloping darkness.

“You should go see him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's called Interlude partly because I was sick of putting part one, part two etc after Shady Belle, and partly because I wanted to give the boys a break from the action for a bit (I felt bad ok). And don't worry, Arthur's back in the next one!


	22. Interlude II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments, and for being so understanding about why this story will take longer to update it. Goddamn, life is crazy at the minute, but I'm never giving up on this fic, I promise.

_Go see him_. That was easier said than done. Albert’s feet felt frozen to the ground as he stared at the large plantation house. Sadie had bounced away, cocking her eyebrows after speaking and then disappearing into the celebration, leaving him wondering if he should follow her advice. Yes, he _absolutely_ wanted to see Arthur, of course he did, but part of him worried what would happen should anyone spot him trying to do so. He’d been told not to go in there, after all. Ignoring the wishes of his hosts didn’t make him a very respectable guest.

But then again, he would be leaving soon. He didn’t know when, exactly, but in the back of his mind Albert hadn’t anticipated staying much longer. He wanted to help, to do something, and sleeping in a shack on his own wasn’t going to get anything done. He would return to his lodgings in Saint Denis, where he’d stayed during the gallery opening, and at least then he’d be out of the way of the van der Linde gang. It seemed so long ago now, so much had happened, and Albert felt he was no longer the meek and mild photographer who occasionally got himself into laughable scrapes.

Well, he was still rather mild.

Regardless, he’d paid three months rent for a small apartment in the city, planning to stay there a while after the exhibitions were over. Albert remembered being glad he had when he’d later bumped into Arthur, hoping he and the other man would be able to spend a bit more time together rather than the one-off encounters they’d had up to that point. A fool’s dream, in retrospect, although he couldn’t deny that in the past month he’d spent more time with Arthur than he could have dreamed was likely.

That settled it, he’d go and see him.  

“Mr. Mason?”

He sighed. Or not.

“Mr. Van der Linde,” he acknowledged, watching Dutch march up to him, a smooth smile on his face.

“I hope you don’t plan to stand out here all night, sir, you’re more than welcome to sit at the fire.”

“That’s very kind,” he replied, “Although, I wonder if I might be able to check on Arthur? Just for a moment, of course, I’m rather worried about him you see…”

Dutch put an arm around him and began walking him back towards his shack, “Yes, I thought you might be. However. I want Arthur to heal as swiftly as possible, and that means keeping him in bed as long as is necessary. If he’s feeling up to it, perhaps he’ll come out later tonight. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, but I–”

“In fact, I wanted to talk to you about the whole business with the Pinkertons,” he continued, “I trust you’ve recovered from your last meeting with Agent Milton? Jumping from a train, I heard.”

“I didn’t exactly jump, it was more of a–”

“How _did_ you catch Milton’s attention?”

Dutch led him to the crates sitting next to the shack and as they sat, Albert remembered Hosea’s earlier words, his caution against telling Dutch the whole truth.

“It wasn’t catching Milton’s attention, so much as happening to get in his way,” he began, trying his best to appear sincere. “Arthur and I… came across each other some weeks ago, and it was then that Milton found him. I did my best to help, but as you can see… it didn’t go according to plan.”

“Hmm,” Dutch said, pulling a cigar from inside his jacket and lighting it. He popped it in his mouth and scrutinized Albert. “What did Arthur mean the other night when he said you didn’t know who Milton was?”

“Oh that,” Albert said, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was thinking on the spot. “Well, Milton had approached me before arresting Arthur – asking questions and the like – but he hadn’t told me he was a Pinkerton agent.”

“Sly bastard,” Dutch grumbled around his cigar.

“Um, yes, exactly.”

“You know, Hosea mentioned a plan that may keep Milton away from us for the time being. Something about going to a reporter, do you know anything about this?”

“Oh yes, Hosea’s explained it to me,” he said, eager for the change of subject. “I think it’ll work terrifically. Milton seems to be a proud man; hopefully he’ll want to avoid having his reputation tarnished.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear that you’re on board, Mr. Mason,” Dutch replied, clapping him on the back with a grin. “I’m glad you’re willing to make yourself useful, and with any luck this plan will work out perfectly.”

“I hope so too, sir,” he said, certain he’d heard a strain of sarcasm in Dutch’s ‘ _useful._ ’ That confirmed something within him, and Albert turned to him fully and said, “I think it’s best I get out of your way now. You’ve all been very kind in taking me in, and I’d hate to intrude any longer than I have to.”

Dutch nodded slightly. “I think you’re right. It’s best for your safety as well as ours; I certainly wouldn’t want you getting caught in any more crossfires. You’ve somewhere to go, I take it?”

“Yes, lodgings in Saint Denis.”

“Excellent,” he said, clapping his hands together. “If you’ll allow it, then, may I escort you tomorrow, so that we can see this reporter and hope he hears what we have to say?”

“O-Of course,” Albert replied, surprised at Dutch’s offer. He’d expected to have to do it on his own, and he didn’t know if it was better or worse to have Dutch go along with him. “Yes, I suppose the sooner we do it, the better.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Dutch said, getting to his feet. He looked down at Albert, tilting his head. “You look worn out, Mr. Mason, why don’t you get some rest?” He began to head towards the house before Albert could say anything else. “I’ll tell everyone to keep it down, alright?”

“Uh – alright,” Albert said lamely after him, sighing in defeat. Dutch certainly knew how to steamroll over someone when he was hearing things he didn’t want to hear. And he had a particular knack for steering the conversation to suit him. A part of Albert was almost envious; he imagined it would have been much easier to get work if he could charm the socks off of everyone he met, but there was no use wishing for better circumstances: he had to think only of the here and now. And now, he had been sent to bed.

He felt slightly ridiculous as he entered the shack and sat on the bed, doing what a stranger had told him to do, yet he worried what the consequences would be if he didn’t listen. Dutch was mild-mannered enough, but Albert knew his history, and he’d seen a glint of something beneath the jovial expression, a steel resolve and a determination that would demolish anything that stood in the way of his success. And Albert absolutely did not want to stand in his way.

* * *

His eyes opened into darkness, and Albert wondered what had woken him. It was still night, and it appeared the party had dissipated, for he could hear no music or chatter coming from outside. It was silent, the only sounds the insects and occasional bird cawing in the swampy surroundings. Albert found it oddly relaxing, and he settled back into his pillow, his eyes drifting closed.

There was a short creak nearby, and Albert’s head shot up. It had come from the window, but it was so damn dark Albert could barely see a thing. The moon was shining outside, creating a little light, but that only succeeded in creating shadows that set his heart racing. His vision pulsed, desperately searching for the source of the noise, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Albert remained frozen for a moment, waiting to see if the noise would occur again, but when all stayed quiet for some minutes, Albert allowed his heart to return to its regular beat, and he let out a sigh of relief.

A head appeared in the window.

Albert’s breath left him, and with a choked shout he jumped up and backed into the furthest corner, grabbing a nearby broom and wielding it like a weapon.

“S’alright! It’s me, Mason, it’s me!” A hoarse whisper sounded from where the window had been cracked open, and Albert dropped his arms as he finally made out Arthur’s chagrined expression.

“Arthur?” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Comin’ to see you, what does it look like?”

“Wha – _why were you coming in through the window_?”

“Shh, not so loud. Don’t want no one wakin’ up.”

Albert was still trying to lower his heart rate, and he pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed slowly.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” he heard Arthur say.

“Just… come in through the door like a normal person, would you?”

A moment later he heard the handle rattle, and he watched as Arthur shuffled inside. He would have felt a little more surprise at seeing the outlaw at his window if he hadn’t just suffered the fright of his life, but now, as Albert lit the lamp at his bedside, it was finally sinking in that Arthur was standing in his room.

“Your leg must still be bothering you,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, and he gestured to the bed, “Sit, please.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur grumbled, but he moved over to the bed regardless and slowly sat.

“Really? Somehow I find that hard to believe since you were shot, what, a week ago?”

“It’s only been a week? Seems longer.”

“Perhaps that’s because you’ve been in your room for most of it.” Albert perched on the bed next to him, offering a sympathetic smile.

“I wanted– I didn’t know how you were doin’,” Arthur muttered, “Dutch wouldn’t tell me a damn thing. I had to... see.”

“You had nothing to worry about, Arthur, I’m alright.” He dared to put a hand on Arthur’s good leg and squeezed gently. “It’s good to see you looking better. Are you stitches holding up?”

“Mason, I said I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped, jerking his leg away from Albert’s hand. He let out a short breath, passing his hand over his eyes. “Sorry.”

“It takes time to recover from these things,” Albert said, sensing Arthur’s frustration. He wasn’t offended at the other man’s actions, knowing what it felt like to be useless, unable to command your body to do what you want to do. “You must know that, what with this life you lead and the kind of man you are.”

“The kinda man I am?”

“Yes. At times you’re incredibly… reckless and stupid.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, a wry smile on his lips. “I s’pose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. An intelligent man certainly wouldn’t jump off a train.”

“Well, what does that make you, then?”

“Me? I didn’t jump, I was thrown,” he said, at that was the first time he’d said that without wanting to be sick.

“But you was gonna jump with me,” Arthur pressed, leaning back on the bed and nudging his leg.

Albert nodded. “True. I _was_ trying to follow you. But I’ve also never claimed to be an intelligent man.”

Arthur was still smiling, looking down at his lap. “I dunno,” he said quietly, “I think you’re pretty damn smart.”

Albert could feel his cheeks reddening, and he opened his mouth to deflect but Arthur got there first.

“No, don’t tell me you ain’t. Just let me… let me say somethin’ for a minute.” He cleared his throat and his hands tightened on the blanket. “I ain’t had a moment to speak to you properly since everythin’ went to shit in Strawberry, and to be honest, I can only remember a little of what’s happened between then and now. It’s drivin’ me crazy,” he added sourly, “But what I _can_ remember is you… Mason. You shoulda never been put in Milton’s sights, and you didn’t deserve what he did to you, but–”

“What he did to _us_ , Arthur. You don’t deserve it either, whatever you may think–”

“Wait a second, let me finish talkin’–”

“No, because you’re trying to apologize, and you’ve nothing to be sorry for–”

“I ain’t tryin’ to apologize, I’m tryna _thank you_!” he shouted, and they both fell quiet, Arthur’s eyes on the door while Albert stared at him with his mouth open.

“Oh,” he said finally. “Well you needn’t do that either.”

Arthur sighed and leaned his head against the wooden wall. “You never make things easy,” he muttered.

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

Arthur huffed a laugh and closed his eyes. “I am sorry. For what it’s worth. Sorry this happened to you. And I wanted to thank you for saving me. ‘Cos that’s what you did. You saved me. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead by now, buried in some ditch.”

Albert placed his hand back on Arthur’s leg and squeezed again, smiling slightly when Arthur hesitantly put his hand over his. They sat comfortably for some minutes, and when Albert heard the outlaw trying to stifle a yawn his smile grew.

“I hate this,” Arthur muttered.

“Recovering?”

“It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Perhaps, but it’s sadly necessary. Why don’t you get some rest?”

Arthur bit back a groan, surging forward to rest his head in his hands. “I’m sick of sleepin’ in that damn bed. Stupid, really. Been a long time since I slept in a proper bed – in a proper house – but right now I never want to sleep in it again.”

Albert moved his hand from Arthur’s leg to his back, his heart hammering in his chest as he said, “I didn’t mean in that house.”

Arthur frowned, his head turning towards him. “What?”

“Lie down.”

Arthur looked at the pillow, “I ain’t kickin’ you out of your bed.”

“Not that way. Here.” He tightened his hold on Arthur’s back, encouraging him towards him, and for every second Arthur didn’t move, Albert more seriously considered bolting out the door and running into the swamp.

Arthur’s blue eyes met his hazel ones, assessing him, before he lowered them and sank down. Albert realized he’d been holding his breath, and he quietly let it out as Arthur settled his head in his lap, a source of warmth in the cool night.

Albert relaxed against the wall and impulsively began carding his fingers through Arthur’s sandy hair, smiling to himself when Arthur grunted at a particular spot his fingers were circling. He could feel the outlaw slumping fully into him, and it amazed him somewhat that a man usually so closed off from those around him was willing to let Albert in. Meeting Arthur for the first time outside of Strawberry, Albert never would have imagined how much he’d come to care for the weary outlaw, who confessed readily and easily that he was not a good man upon their second meeting, yet who – months later – showed up in Van Horn awkward and bumbling, pretending he wasn’t there to attend Albert’s exhibition. The fact that he had been late enough that he’d missed it made no difference to Albert – and how could it, when it later saved his life? – because Albert could read between the lines, knew full well that Arthur had more important things to be doing than travelling the country with him. Arthur liked to say he didn’t have a heart, but Albert had yet to meet a man with one as loyal and protective as him.

And it was because of that, that Albert knew he couldn’t tell Arthur of his plans. As long as Dutch and Hosea kept it from him, Albert would too, because the minute Arthur learned he was engaging Milton again – even if it was in a way that was relatively risk-free – he would do everything in his power to stop Albert, to keep him safe. And while Albert appreciated the sentiment, this time it was his turn to keep him safe, to keep protecting him as he’d tried to do in Blackwater, on the train. He’d known for a while that he would do anything for Arthur, he could only hope Arthur would see that and forgive him once the dust had settled and it was over.

For now, though, Albert focused on the man below him, whose breaths were hitching whenever Albert scratched his scalp in some places. Arthur’s eyes were open, though half-lidded, and in the dim light Albert could see that they were shining and watery.

“Alright?” he asked quietly, pausing in his ministrations.

“Yeah,” Arthur answered, voice barely a whisper in the silent room. He was looking dead ahead, barely blinking.

“Want me to stop?”

“Uh... only if you–”

“Arthur,” he interrupted gently, brushing his hair away from his face. “Do you want me to stop?”

Arthur’s lips pressed together before they twisted into a brief, trembling flicker of a smile. “No,” he breathed.

“Okay.” Albert continued to run his fingers through the fine strands of hair, now occasionally letting his other hand drift down Arthur’s back, stroking up and down, feeling the tight muscles that were starting to loosen under his touch. He felt a hand slide under his leg, curling around the back of his calf, as if worried he’d get up and leave. Albert instantly worked to assuage that fear.

“Do you remember when we were in Valentine,” he began gently, never stopping his soothing movements. “and we rode out to the Heartlands?”

“Was that the day I found that body?” Arthur asked, his voice slurring slightly.

“No, that was the day before. Thank you for reminding me of that moment, I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to think of think that again.”

“Sorry.”

“It was the day after. It was lovely and sunny. You came with me to watch me photograph the local wildlife, and we shared a can of strawberries during the afternoon.”

“Mmm.”

“I was practicing my speech for the upcoming exhibition, and you were writing in your journal, I think–” _Kind and interesting and entirely unused to real country_ – “and as the day passed you fell asleep against me.”

Albert noted with small pleasure that Arthur’s eyes were closed, though he could tell by the grip on his leg that he was still awake. “I wished then I could have frozen that moment, that afternoon in fact, so that I could re-live it over and over again. I wouldn’t have to worry about paying debts, I wouldn’t stress over what I was doing with my life, I would have even given up those exhibitions, even though at the time they seemed a dream come true. To re-live that afternoon was my greatest wish, even though I couldn’t fully pinpoint why. But I think I’ve worked it out now.”

The hold on his leg began to loosen, tightening here and there as Arthur struggled to remain awake. “For another afternoon, Arthur, I’d trade anything, _everything_ , so long as I get to spend it with you. You deserve to know that. You deserve to know how wholly and utterly I care for you.”

The hand finally let go and Arthur submitted, his breathing slowing to a regular rhythm. Albert smiled once more and, ignoring the stray tear that dropped down his cheek, gingerly reached for the spare blanket at the bottom of the bed and draped it over Arthur’s sleeping form, feeling a sense of pure tranquillity for the first time since arriving at Shady Belle.


End file.
